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INTRODUCTION 



TO 



ENGLISH LITERATURE 



INCLUDING 



A NUMBER OF CLASSIC WORKS. 



WITH NOTES. 



F. V. N. PAINTER, A.M. 

Professor of Modern Languages and Literature in Roanoke College. 

Author of a History of Education, Luther on Education, 

History of Christian Worship, etc. 



^'^^ 







LEACH, SHEWELL, & SANBORN, 

BOSTON. NEW YORK. CHICAGO. 



^'^^^^ 



K. 




Copyright, 1894, 
By Leach, Shewell, & Sanbokn. 



Electrotyping by C. J. Peters & Son. 
Peesswork by Berwick & Smith. 



PREFACE. 



This work is an attempt to solve the problem of teach- 
ing English literature. The ordinary manuals, it is be- 
lieved, have ceased to give general satisfaction. This 
result was inevitable ; for the principle upon which they 
are based is fundamentally at variance with educational 
science. While containing a great deal about English, 
literature, these works do not teach English literature 
itself ; and it is not unusual for a student to finish them 
without being acquainted with a single classic work, or 
having acquired the least fondness for sterling literature. 
It is the recognition of these facts that has caused many 
teachers to desire and seek something better. 

The subject of English literature is of great extent ; 
no other nationality has a richer intellectual heritage. Its 
history extends through twelve hundred years, and the list 
of authors and of their productions is almost endless. Some 
knowledge of this literature is an indispensable part of a 
liberal education. Simply as information, this knowledge 
is of far more importance to us than an acquaintance with 
any other literature, ancient or modern. And as an edu- 
cating instrumentality, it possesses great value. Its criti- 



IV PREFACE. 

cal study disciplines the attention, refines the taste, and 
cultivates the memory and judgment. But of more im- 
portance than any of these particulars, is its value in 
awakening mind. English literature is peculiarly adapted, 
in the hands of a competent teacher, to produce a genuine 
thirst for knowledge and culture — a thirst which once 
awakened rarely fails, in this age of books, to attain its 
end. 

But the vast extent of English literature makes it a 
difficult subject to handle successfully in the class-room. 
Two leading mistakes, which have been embodied in 
numerous text-books, are easily made. On the one hand, 
a treatment too comprehensive in its scope necessitates a 
painful meagreness of details ; and the result is that the 
subject, with its bare biographical facts and its broad gen- 
eralizations, remains confused and barren in the learner's 
mind. He is told many things about English literature, 
but he is not once permitted to see and examine for him- 
self. On the other hand, brief illustrative extracts, with a 
short biographical notice of each writer, leaves the student 
unacquainted with English literature in its wonderful course 
of development. While learning many names and perhaps 
some choice bits of poetry and prose, he knows nothing of 
the writers in relation to one another, and to the times in 
which they lived. 

Evidently some plan of selection and arrangement that 
might avoid these two erroneous methods is desirable. 
Greater fulness of treatment should be secured by the 



PREFACE. V 

omission of unimportant writers ; and in addition to this, 
the characteristics of each period, which are related ahke 
to all the writers belonging to it, should be traced at some 
length. Fortunately English literature leads itself readily 
to this two-fold treatment. The long course of our litera- 
ture is broken up into a number of periods marked by the 
presence of new and weighty influences ; and in each 
period there are a few writers that stand, by reason of 
their ability and enduring works, in positions of recognized 
pre-eminence. These are our classic authors ; and it is 
with their writings, in connection with the moulding in- 
fluence of epoch and surroundings, that the formal study 
of English literature should begin. This plan, which it is 
hoped will be found embodied in the present work, not 
only gives the student what is rightly cafled a philosophy 
of our literature, but also leads him to a direct acquaint- 
ance with the literature itself. 

A moment's examination will show the structure of 
the present work. The treatment of the representative 
writers of each period is sufficiently extended to allow con- 
siderable fulness of biographical and critical detail. This, 
it is hoped, will add to the interest of the work, and also 
be useful in developing a literary taste. The selections 
are representative pieces ; and, studied with the help of 
the critical and explanatory notes, they will be found suffi- 
cient to give the student a clear idea of each author. To 
secure greater completeness of treatment, and also to 
encourage independent investigation, it is recommended 



VI PREFACE. 

that the less prominent authors, a list of which is prefixed 
to each period, be made from time to time the subject of 
essays and discussions in class. This will be found upon 
trial an interesting and profitable exercise. 

The plan here adopted is the outgrowth of long expe- 
rience ; and it is believed that the faithful use of the book 
in the class-room can hardly fail to cultivate a taste for 
English literature, to give a clear conception of the gen- 
eral course of its development, to impart a considerable 
knowledge of our leading classic authors, and to stimulate 
further study in this interesting and valuable department 

of liberal culture. 

F. V. N. PAINTER. 
Salem, Virginia. 

November, 1894. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Introduction i 

I. 

Formative Period, 1066-1400 '. . 19 

Chaucer, Prologue 24 

II. 

First Creative Period, 1558-1625 75 

Spenser, Faery Queene 84 

Bacon, Essays 137 

Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice 172 

III. 

Civil War Period, i 625-1660 273 

Milton, L'Allegro and II Penseroso 280 

IV. 

The Restoration, 1660-1700 311 

Dryden, Religio Laici 316 

V. 

The Queen Anne Period, i 700-1 745 347 

Addison, Sir Roger de Coverley 352 

Pope, Essay on Criticism 377 

vii 



Vlll CONTEXTS. 

Age of Johnson, 1745-1S00 421 

Burns, The Cotter's Saturday Night, etc 426 

Goldsmith, The Deserted Village 454 

Johnson, Akenside 479 

VII. 

The Nineteenth Century 499 

Scott, The Talisman 50S 

Byron, The Prisoner of Chillon 526 

Wordsworth, Tintern Abbey and Intimations of Immortality 548 

Tennyson, Elaine 575 



ENGLISH LITERATURE 



INTR on UC2YON. 

History treats chiefly of the deeds of a people; liter- 
ature records their thoughts and feelings. It is thus in- 
timately connected with the intellectual life of a nation, 
of which it is the product and expression. No literature 
is fully intelligible without an acquaintance with the con- 
ditions under which it originated. The three leading 
factors that determine its character are race, epoch, and 
surroundings. Each race has its fundamental traits, which 
give it individuality in the world. The Teuton, with his 
serious, reflective, persistent temper, is quite different from 
the Celt, with his vivacity, wit, and ready enthusiasm. 
These differences are naturally reflected in the literature 
of the two races. 

Again, every age has its peculiar interests, culture, and 
tendencies. Literature cannot divorce itself from the 
spirit of the time in which it is produced. For instance, 
the dramas of Shakespeare, which reflect all the intellect- 
ual wealth and freedom of the age of Elizabeth, could not 
have been written in the rude period of the Norman 
Conquest. 

The third great formative principle in literature is 
environment, or physical and social conditions. The lit- 



2 EXGLISH LITERATURE. 

erature produced in the presence of a sterile soil and rig- 
orous climate must necessarily be different in tone and 
coloring from that produced in the midst of fruitful fields 
and under sunny skies. And, in like manner, its quantity 
and quality will be affected, to a greater or less degree, by 
a state of war or peace, intelligence or ignorance, wealth 
or poverty, freedom or persecution. 

It is not enough to be acquainted with the isolated 
facts of a literature ; we should study them in connection 
with the A-arious causes by which they were moulded and 
by which they are bound together in unity. This study of 
causes and influences gives us a philosophy of literature, 
without which an acquaintance with separate authors will 
leave us superficial. But it is a mistake to suppose that 
race, epoch, and siuTOundings will explain everything in 
literature ; there is a personal element of great impor- 
tance. From time to time men of great genius appear, 
and rising by native strength high above the level of 
their age, become centres of a new and weighty influ- 
ence in literature. This truth is exemiDlified by Luther 
in Germany, and Bacon in England, each of whom pro- 
foundly affected the subsequent literary development of 
his country. 

English literature embodies the results of English 
thought and feeling. It shares in the greatness of the 
English people. It combines French vivacity with Ger- 
man depth. If Germany excels in scholarship, and France 
in taste, England has produced a literature that in com- 
prehensive scope and general excellence is second to none. 
Xo department of literature has been left uncultivated. 
Poets have sung in sweet and lofty strains ; novelists have 
artistically portrayed every phase of society ; orators have 



INTR on UC TION. 3 

convinced the judgment and moved the heart ; scientists 
have revealed the laws of the physical world ; and phi- 
losophers have deeply pondered the mysteries of existence. 

This literature is a heritage in which English-speaking 
people may feel a just pride, a subject to which they 
should give careful study. Only through literature can 
we obtain an adequate acquaintance with the best products 
of the English mind — a knowledge that is indispensable 
to liberal culture. English literature begins with Bede in 
the seventh century, and extends through the long period 
of twelve hundred years to the present time. Its course 
has been an ever-widening stream. 

The original inhabitants of the British Isles, within 
historic times, were Celts — a part of the first great Ar- 
yan wave that swept over Europe. They were partially 
conquered by the Romans, 55 B.C., and Britain continued 
under Roman dominion, as a province of the Empire, for 
nearly five hundred years. Then followed, in the fifth and 
sixth centuries of our era, the invasion by the Angles, 
Saxons, and Jutes — Teutonic tribes that inhabited 
Schleswig, Jutland, and adjacent territory on the conti- 
nent. They exterminated the native Celts as completely 
as their descendants exterminated the American Indians. 
In the following centuries they laid the foundation of 
England — a word signifying the land of the Angles. 

In the character of these Teutonic tribes are to be 
found the fundamental traits of the English people and 
of English literature. In their continental home they led 
a semi-barbarous and pagan life. The sterile soil and 
dreary climate fostered a serious disposition and developed 
great physical strength. Courage was esteemed a leading 
virtue, and cowardice was punished with drowning. No 



4 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Other men were ever braver. They welcomed the fierce 
excitement of danger ; and in rude vessels they sailed 
from coast to coast on expeditions of piracy, war, and pil- 
lage. Laughing at storms and shipwrecks, these daring 
sea-kings sang : " The blast of the tempest aids our oars ; 
the bellowing of heaven, the howling of the thunder, hurts 
us not ; the hurricane is our servant, and drives us whither 
we wish to go." 

With an unconquerable love of independence, they 
preferred death to slavery. Refined tastes and delicate 
instincts were crushed out by their inhospitable surround- 
ings ; and their pleasures, consisting chiefly of drinking, 
gambling, and athletic sports, were coarse and repulsive. 
Yet under their coarsest enjoyments we discover a sturdy, 
masculine strength. They felt the presence of the mys- 
terious forces of nature, and deified them in a colossal 
mythology. Traces of their religion are seen in the 
names of the days of the week. Their sense of obliga- 
tion and duty was strong ; and having once pledged fidel- 
ity to a leader or cause, they remained loyal to death. 
They honored woman and revered virtue. In a word, the 
Anglo-Saxons possessed a native virtue and strength which, 
ennobled by Christianity, and refined by culture, raised 
their descendants to a pre-eminent position among the 
nations of the earth. 

The Anglo-Saxon invasion swept away the British 
church which had been established under Christian Rome. 
A reign of paganism was once more introduced, and held 
sway for a hundred and fifty years. Then occurred an 
event that changed the character of English history. In 
597 Gregory, who filled the papal chair at Rome, sent St. 



IN TR on UC TION. 5 

Augustine with a band of missionaries to labor among the 
Anglo-Saxons. While yet an abbot, Gregory's interest 
had been awakened by the fair faces and flaxen hair of a 
group of Saxon youths exposed for sale in the slave-market 
at Rome. "Who are they .^ " he asked. *' Angles," was 
the reply. " It suits them well," he said, '* with faces so 
angel-like. From what country do they come .? " " From 
Deiri," said the merchant. ^' De ira!'^^ exclaimed the 
pious monk, '* then they must be delivered from the wrath 
of God. What is the name of their king .^^ " **Aella," 
he was told. "Aella!" he replied, seizing on the word 
as of good omen, " then shall Alleluia be sung in his 
land." 

Augustine proceeded to Kent, where he was kindly 
received by Ethelbert. The king had married Bertha, a 
Frankish princess of Christian training, through whose 
influence his pagan prejudices had been largely over- 
come. When, by means of interpreters, Augustine had 
set forth the nature of Christianity in a lengthy address, 
the king said : *' Your words and promises are very fair ; 
but as they are new to us, and of uncertain import, I can- 
not approve of them so far as to forsake that which I 
have so long followed with the whole English nation. But 
because you are come from far into my kingdom, and, as I 
conceive, are desirous to impart to us those things which 
you believe to be true and most beneficial, we will not 
molest you, but give you favorable entertainment, and take 
care to supply you with your necessary sustenance ; nor do 
we forbid you to preach and gain as many as you can to 
your religion." ^ 

^ Latin, meaning ^^from the wrath." 

2 Bede, Ecclesiastical History, B. I. ch. xxv. 



6 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

The missionaries took up- their residence at Canterbury. 
Christianity made rapid progress. Within a year from the 
landing of Augustine upon the shores of Kent, Ethelbert 
and thousands of his people became Christians. Mission- 
ary zeal carried the new religion to other parts of Eng- 
land. Edwin, the powerful king of Northurabria, was led 
to call a council for the purpose of considering its adop- 
tion. An aged ealderman arose and spoke as follow^s : 
" So seems life, O King, as a sparrow's flight through the 
hall where a man is sitting at meat in w^inter-tide with the 
warm fire lighted on the hearth, but the chill rain-storm 
without. The sparrow flies in at one door and tarries 
for a moment in the light and heat of the hearth- 
fire, and then flying forth from the other, .vanishes 
into the wintry darkness whence it came. So tarries 
for a moment the life of man in our sight, but what 
is before it and what after it, we know not. If this 
new teaching tell us aught certainly of these, let us 
follow it." 

The native seriousness of the Anglo-Saxon character 
offered a favorable soil for the growth of Christianity. 
The gospel w^as peculiarly adapted to the needs of this 
people. In restraining brutal pleasures, inculcating be- 
nevolent affections, and promoting intellectual culture, it 
supplied what was wanting in English character, and im- 
parted an element essential to the highest development of 
the national life. England was once more brought in line 
with the highest European civilization ; and the culture, 
arts, and sciences, that had fled before the pagan con- 
querors, returned with Christianity. 

The Anglo-Saxons were too much engaged in the active 
employments of life to have either inclination or leisure 



INTR ODUC TION. 7 

for literary culture. In spite of the education that fol- 
lowed in the wake of Christianity, the masses remained in 
ignorance, and even kings were sometimes unable to write 
their names. The monasteries, which grew out of the 
ascetic spirit then prevailing in the church, constituted 
the principal educational agency. The secular schools of 
pagan Rome had long since disappeared. The church 
reo-arded education as one of its exclusive functions, and 

o 

under its direction nearly all instruction had a theological 
or ecclesiastical aim. Purely secular studies were pursued 
only in the interests of the church. The course of in- 
struction in the convent or monastic schools embraced the 
so-called seven liberal arts — grammar, logic, rhetoric, 
arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and music — to which 
seven years were devoted. Latin, the language of the 
church, was made the basis of education, to the general 
neglect of the mother-tongue. The works of the church 
fathers were chiefly read, though expurgated copies of the 
Latin classics were also used. 

England produced its share of distinguished scholars, 
among whom were Alcuin, Bede, and Erigena. In the 
preface of one of his works Alcuin warmly commends 
study : '' Oh, ye, who enjoy the youthful age, so fitted for 
your lessons, learn ! Be docile. Lose not the day in idle 
things. The passing hour, like the wave, never returns 
again. Let your early years flourish with the study of 
the virtues, that your age may shine with great honors. 
L^se these happy days. Learn, while young, the art of 
eloquence, that you may be a safeguard and defender of 
those whom you value. Acquire the conduct and man- 
ners so beautiful in youth, and your name will become 
celebrated through the w^orld. But as I wish you not to 



8 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

be sluggish, so neither be proud. I worship the recesses 
of the devout and humble breast." ^ 

The first literature of a people is poetry. In national, 
as in individual life, the imagination is strong during the 
period of youth. An acquaintance with Anglo-Saxon life 
and character enables us to anticipate the spirit of their 
poetry. Not love, but war and religion, form its leading 
themes. The language is abrupt, elliptical, highly meta- 
phorical, but often of overpowering energy. In form, 
Anglo-Saxon poetry consists of short, exclamatory, alliter- 
ative verses. Narrative poems, recited to the accompani- 
ment of a musical instrument, often formed a part of their 
ale-drinking banquets. 

The most important Anglo-Saxon poem that has de- 
scended to us is "■ Beowulf," an epic of six thousand short 
lines. It was probably composed in its present form in 
the eighth century, but the deeds it celebrates belong 
to a much earliej period. It possesses great value, not 
only for philology, but also for history, since it portrays 
the manners and customs of our Anglo-Saxon forefathers 
before they left their continental home. The hero of the 
poem is Beowulf, who, sailing to the land of the Danes, 
slew a monster of the fens called Grendel, whose nightly 
ravages brought dismay into the royal palace. After 
slaying the monster of the marshes, Beowulf returned to 
his native country, where he became king and ruled fifty 
years. But at last, in attacking a wrathful dragon '' under 
the earth, nigh to the sea wave," he was mortally wounded. 
At his burial, "about the mound rode his hearth-sharers, 
who sang that he was of kings, of men, the mildest, kind- 

1 Turner, History of the Anglo-Saxons, Vol. II. 



INTK OD UC TION. 9 

est, to his people sweetest, and the readiest in search of 
praise." Such, in a word, is the substance of the story, 
but it o:ives no idea of the interest of the details. 

Caedmon, the earliest of English poets, lived in the 
latter part of the seventh century. He has with justice 
been called '' the ]\Iilton of our forefathers ; " and his poems 
are strongly suggestive of " Paradise Lost." He seems to 
have been a laborer on the lands attached to the monas- 
tery of St. Hilda at Whitby, and was advanced in years 
before his poetical powers were developed. When at fes- 
tive gatherings it was agreed that all present should sing 
in turn, Caedmon was accustomed, as the harp approached 
him, quietly to retire with a humiliating sense of his want 
of skill. Having left the banqueting hall on one occasion, 
he went to the stable, where it was his turn to care for the 
horses. In a vision an angel appeared to him and said, 
" Caedmon, sing a song to me." He answered, '' I cannot 
sing ; for that is the reason why I left the entertainment, 
and retired to this place." " Nevertheless," said the 
heavenly visitor, " thou shalt sing." " What shall I sing } " 
inquired the poet, as he felt the movement of an awaken- 
ing power. ■ " Sing the beginning of created things," said 
the angel. 

His mission was thus assigned him. In the morning 
the good abbess Hilda, with a company of learned men, 
witnessed an exhibition of his newly awakened powers ; 
and concluding that heavenly grace had been bestowed 
upon him, she bade him lay aside his secular habit and 
received him into the monastery as a monk. Here he 
led a humble, exemplary life in the exercise of his poetic 
gifts. " He sang the creation of the world, the origin 
of man, and all the history of Genesis ; and made many 



lO ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

verses on the departure of the children of Israel out of 
Egypt, and their entering into the Land of Promise, with 
many other histories from Holy Writ ... by which he 
endeavored to turn away all men from the love of vice, 
and to excite in them the love of, and application to, good 
actions." ^ 

The following description of the Creation illustrates 
Caedmon's manner of amplifying the simple Scripture 
narrative : — - 

" There was not yet then here, 
Except gloom like a cavern, 
Any thing made. 
But the wide ground 
Stood deep and dim 
For a new lordship, 
Shapeless and unsuitable. 
On this with his eyes he glanced, 
The King stern in mind, 
And the joyless place beheld. 
He saw the dark clouds 
Perpetually press 
Black under the sky, 
Void and waste; 
Till that this world's creation 
Through the word was done 
Of the King of Glory." 

Though rude in form, Caedmon's Paraphrase contains 
genuine poetry. It is the product of admirable genius, 
but genius fettered by unfavorable surroundings and lack 
of culture. 

Bede may be justly regarded as the father of English 
prose. From an interesting autobiographical sketch at 
the close of his " Ecclesiastical History," we learn the 
leading events in his unpretentious life. He was born in 

1 Bede, Ecclesiastical History, B. IV. ch. xxiv. 



INTR on UC TION. 1 1 

673, near the monastery of Jarrow in northern England. 
As pupil, deacon, and priest, he passed his entire life in 
that monastic institution. The leisure that remained to 
him after the faithful performance of his various official 
duties, he assiduously devoted to learning ; for he always 
took delight, as he tells us, '' in learning, teaching, and 
writing." He was an indefatigable worker, and wrote no 
less than forty-five separate treatises, including works on 
Scripture, history, hymnology, astronomy, grammar, and 
rhetoric, in which is embodied all the learning of his age. 

His scholarship and aptness as a teacher gave celebrity 
to the monastic school at Jarrow, which was attended at 
one time by six hundred monks in addition to many secu- 
lar students. His fame extended as far as Rome, whither 
he was invited by Pope Sergius, who wished the benefit 
of his counsel. He led an eminently simple, devout, and 
earnest life. He declined the dignity of abbot, lest the 
duties of the office might interfere with his studies. As a 
writer he was clear, succinct, and artless. His " Ecclesi- 
astical History," which was composed in Latin, is our 
chief source of information in regard to the early Anglo- 
Saxon church. The credulity he exhibits in regard to 
ecclesiastical miracles was characteristic of his time. 

His pupil Cuthbert has left us a pathetic account of 
his death. Industrious to the last, he was engaged on 
an Anglo-Saxon version of St. John. It was Wednesday 
morning, the 27th of May. One of his pupils, who was 
acting as scribe, said to him : " Dearest master, there is 
still one chapter wanting ; do you think it troublesome to 
be asked any more questions.'*" He answered, "It is no 
trouble. Take your pen and write fast." In the after- 
noon he called his friends together, distributed a few sim- 



12 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

pie gifts, and then amidst. their tears bade them a solemn 
farewell. At sunset his scribe said : " Dear master, there 
is yet one sentence not written." He answered, *' Write 
quickly." '' It is finished now," said the scribe at last. 
"You have spoken truly," the aged scholar rephed, "it is 
finished. Receive my head into your hands, for it is a 
great satisfaction to me to sit facing the holy place where 
I was wont to pray." And thus on the pavement of his 
little cell, in the year 735, he quietly passed away with 
the last words of the solemn chant, " Glory be to the 
Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost." 

Thus closed the life of the first great English scholar. 
Not inaptly did later ages style him the Venerable Bede. 
" First among English scholars, first among English theo- 
logians, first among English historians, it is in the monk 
of Jarrow that English literature strikes its roots. In the 
six hundred scholars who gathered round him for instruc- 
tion he is the father of our national education. In his 
physical treatises he is the first figure to which our 
science looks back." ^ 

Not many sovereigns deserve a place in literature be- 
cause of their own writings. But Alfred was as great 
with the pen as with the sword. His history, around 
which legendary stories have gathered, reads in its reality 
like a piece of fiction. Known ages ago as the "darling 
of the English," he grows in greatness with the passing 
years. The unfavorable surroundings of his life serve as 
a foil to set off his virtues. 

He was born in 849. A part of his childhood was 
spent in Rome, while much of its ancient splendor still 
remained. At the residence of King ^thelwulf, his 

1 Green, History of the English People, Vol. I. 



INTR OD UC TION. 1 3 

father, he learned not only the manly sports of the Anglo- 
Saxon youth, — running, leaping, wrestling, hunting, — 
but also the various occupations pertaining to the house- 
hold, the workshop, and the tilling of the soil. He had 
a passion for the heroic songs of his people, and even 
before learning to read he had committed many of them 
to memory. Blessed with a healthful precocity of mind, 
he treasured up all this varied knowledge, and utilized it 
with rare wisdom in after years. 

At the age of twenty-three he ascended the throne, 
and spent a considerable part of his subsequent life in con- 
flict with the Danes, who in great numbers were making 
a descent upon the cultivated districts of England and 
France for the sake of pillage. At one time he was re- 
duced to the extremity of fleeing with a few followers 
before the pagan invaders. But adversity, as with every 
vigorous nature, called forth a greater energy and determi- 
nation. Gathering about him a body of strong and true 
men, he at length turned upon the foe, surprised and de- 
feated them, and conquered a favorable peace. By the 
superior military organization of his people, by the found- 
ing of an English navy, and, above all, by his pre-eminent 
ability as a commander, he succeeded in repelling all sub- 
sequent attacks by the northern invaders, and saved Eng- 
land to the Anglo-Saxon race. 

In the leisure that followed his treaties of peace, Alfred 
devoted himself assiduously to the elevation and welfare of 
his people. He rebuilt ruined towns, restored demolished 
monasteries, established a fixed code of laws, and encour- 
aged every form of useful industry. The king himself set 
the example of diligent labor. By means of six wax can- 
dles which, lighted in succession, burned twenty-four 



14 EXGLISH LITERATURE. 

hours, he introckiced a rigid system into his work. He 
carried with him a Httle book in which he noted the valua- 
ble thoughts that occurred to him from time to time. 
When he came to the throne, the learning which a century 
before had furnished Europe with some of its most emi- 
nent scholars had fallen into decay. '' To so low a depth 
has learning fallen among the English nation," he says, 
'' that there have been very few on this side of the Hum- 
ber who were able to understand the English of their ser- 
vice, or to turn an epistle out of Latin into English ; and 
I know that there were not many beyond the Humber who 
could do it." 

AMth admirable tact and wisdom he set about reme- 
dymg the evil. He studied Latin himself that he might 
provide his people with useful books ; he invited learned 
scholars from the continent to his court ; and he estab- 
lished in the royal palace a school for the instruction of 
noble youth. His efforts were grandly successful ; and in 
less than a 2:eneration Eno-land was asfain blessed T\qth 
intelligence and 'prosperity. Among the books he trans- 
lated into Anglo-Saxon were Bede's "Ecclesiastical His- 
torv ; " Orosius' " Universal History," the leading text -book 
on that subject in the monastic schools for several centu- 
ries ; and Boethius' " Consolations of Philosophy," a popular 
book among thoughtful people during the Middle Ages. 
These translations were not always literal. Alfred rather 
performed the work of editor, paraphrasing, omitting, add- 
ing, as best served his purpose. In the work of Boethius 
he frequently departed from the text to introduce reflec- 
tions of his own. To him belongs the honor of having 
furnished England with its first body of literature in the 
native tonsfue. 



INTRODUCTION. 1 5 

He died in 901. The governing purpose of his life he 
pointed out in a single sentence : " This I can now truly 
say, that so long as I have lived, I have striven to live 
worthily, and after my death to leave my memory to my 
descendants in good works." In him the Anglo-Saxon 
stock reached its highest development. His character was 
based on a profound belief in the abiding presence of God. 
But rising above the ascetic spirit of his time, he de- 
voted himself to the duties of his royal station. To great 
vigor in action he added the force of patient and invinci- 
ble endurance. While he watched with capacious intellect 
over the interests of his entire realm, he led with great 
simplicity a genial and affectionate life with his family 
and friends. After ages have made no mistake in calling 
him Alfred the Great. 



FORMATIVE PERIOD. 



REPRESENTATIVE WRITER. 

GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 

OTHER PROMINENT WRITERS. 

Poets. — Layamon, Ormin, Langland, Cower. 
Prose Writer. — Wycliffe. 



THE FORMATIVE PERIOD. 

(1066-1400.) 

General Survey. — The designation " formative pe- 
riod " is applied to the centuries lying between the Nor- 
man Conquest and the death of Chaucer. It is a period 
of great importance for English history and English litera- 
ture. England passed under a succession of alien rulers, 
and the state of society underwent a great change. For 
a long time violent antagonisms existed between Norman 
conqueror and Saxon subject. Their languages were 
kept distinct ; and a French and an Anglo-Saxon literature 
existed side by side, while Latin, as the language of the 
church and of scholars, added to the confusion. 

But toward the close of the period, especially in the 
fourteenth century, the people of England became more 
homogeneous. The Normans coalesced with the Anglo- 
Saxons, and added new elements to the English character. 
At the same time the Anglo-Saxon language, which had 
hitherto maintained its highly inflected character, made 
a gradual transition into modern English. It gave up its 
complicated inflections, and received into its vocabulary a 
host of foreign elements, chiefly from the French. The 
new tongue, which gradually supplanted French and 
Latin, gained official recognition in 1362, when it became 
the language of the courts of law ; and the following year 

19 



20 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

it was employed in the speech made at the opening of 
Parliament. 

The name of Normans is given to the Scandinavians 
who, at the beginning of the tenth century, conquered a 
home in the northern part of France. They speedily 
adopted the language and customs of the subjugated 
country, and rapidly advanced in refinement and culture. 
By intermarriage with the native population, a vivacious 
Celtic element was introduced into the grave Teutonic 
disposition. Though of kindred blood with the Anglo- 
Saxons, the Normans, by their stay in France, developed 
a new, and in many respects admirable, type of character. 

Along with their native Teutonic strength they ac- 
quired a versatile and imitative temper, which made them 
accessible to new ideas, and prepared them to be leaders 
in general progress. Losing their slow, phlegmatic tem- 
perament, they became impulsive and impatient of re- 
straint. Their intellects acquired a nimble quality, quick 
in discernment, and instantaneous in decision. Delicacy 
of feeling produced aversion to coarse pleasures. They 
delighted in a gay social life, with hunting, hawking, showy 
equipage, and brilliant festivities. Diplomacy in a meas- 
ure supplanted daring frankness. Brilliant superficiality 
took the place of grave thoughtfulness. Such were the 
people that were to rule in England, to introduce their 
language and customs, and, amalgamated at last, to impart 
a needed element to the English character. 

In 1066 William, Duke of Normandy, landed on the 
English coast to enforce his claim to the English throne. 
In the battle, of Hastings he gained a complete victory 
over the force under Harold, and won the title of Con- 



THE FORMATIVE PERIOD. 21 

queror. He distributed England in the form of fiefs 
among his followers, and reduced the Anglo-Saxon popu- 
lation to a condition of serfdom. Feudal castles were 
erected in every part of England ; and the barons or lords, 
supported by the labors of a great body of dependants, 
lived in idleness and luxury. These baronial residences 
became centres of knightly culture. Here noble youths 
acquired courtly graces, and wandering minstrels enter- 
tained the assembled household with their songs. Bril- 
liant tournaments from time to time brought together the 
beauty and chivalry of the whole realm. French became 
the social language of the ruling classes ; and the Anglo- 
Saxons, reduced to servitude, were despised. It required 
many generations to break down this harsh antagonism. 

The social condition of England in the thirteenth and 
fourteenth centuries was most intimately related to the 
first great outburst of English literature. The Normans 
and the Saxons were drawn more closely together. When 
compelled to give up the hope of establishing a kingdom 
on the continent, the Norman fixed his thoughts upon his 
island home. The valor of the Saxons on many a field of 
France had conquered the respect of their haughty rulers. 

A restraint was set upon absolutism by the provisions 
of the Great Charter. The growth of cities and towns 
had been rapid, and there existed in all parts of England 
a wealthy and influential citizen class. The serfs of the 
time of the Conquest had risen to the rank of free peas- 
ants. Parliament was divided into two bodies, and the 
people acquired a growing influence in the affairs of 
government. The amalgamation of the two races that 
had lived side by side for centuries was gradually com- 



22 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

pleted, and the great English nation, in its modern form, 
had its beginning — a nation that in its type of character 
is second to none in the history of the world. 

But many evils still existed. The nobility lived in lux- 
ury and extravagance, while the peasants lived in squalor 
and want. The public taste was coarse, and the state 
of morals low. Highwaymen rendered travel unsafe. 
Through gross abuses of its power and the extensive cor- 
ruption of its representatives, the church had in large 
measure lost its hold upon the people. Immense rev- 
enues, five times greater than that of the crown, were paid 
into the coffers at Rome. Half the soil of England was 
in the hands of the clergy. The immorality of the friars 
was notorious, and provoked vigorous denunciation and 
resistance. Yet there were faithful pastors and prelates, 
who, like Chaucer's poor parson, taught '' Christes lore " 
and followed it themselves ; and magnificent cathedrals 
were built to stand as objects of admiration for succeed- 
ing ages. 

The substantial element in all literature is knowledge. 
This was not lacking in the fourteenth century. Various 
agencies contributed to the general increase of knowledge. 
The Crusades had opened up the Orient and brought new 
ideas into vogue. The literature of France — the long 
narrative poems of the troitvere and the short love ballads 
of the troiLbadour — introduced a new taste and furnished 
improved models of style. The legends that had gathered 
about the names of Charlemagne, Alexander, and King 
Arthur, appealed strongly to the imagination of the age. 
The monasteries had multiplied in their scriptoria the 
writings of the ancients. Through Arabic influence and 



THE FORMATIVE PERIOD. ' 2$ 

the general awakening in Europe, learning was held in 
greater esteem and prosecuted with more vigor. It was 
no longer confined to the representatives of the church. 
Ecclesiastical and secular schools were greatly multiplied 
for the instruction of the young. Universities and col- 
leges were founded in considerable numbers, some of the 
most illustrious colleges at Oxford and Cambridge being 
established at this time. Along with scholasticism, which 
rigidly applied the logic of Aristotle to the development 
of theology, the ancient classics of Greece and Rome were 
beginning to receive attention. The nobility began to 
take interest in letters. In Italy brilliant writers — Dante, 
Petrarch, and Boccaccio — made permanent contributions 
to the literature of the world. Thus a great store of 
material was accumulated* in the fourteenth century — 
material that awaited the master-workman soon to appear. 



24 • ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 

Above all his contemporaries of the fourteenth century 
stands the figure of Geoffrey Chaucer. He is called by 
Tennyson — 

"... The first warbler, whose sweet breath 
Preluded those melodious bursts that fill 
The spacious times of great Elizabeth 
With sounds that echo still." 

He ov/es his pre-eminence to several facts. First of all, he 
was gifted by nature with extraordinary poetic genius, which 
embodied itself in a number of imperishable works. He is 
justly called by Dryden " the father of English poetry." Be- 
sides, he was peculiarly favored in the circumstances of his 
life. In the field, at the court, in his business relations, he 
acquired a wide range of knowledge, which lent support to his 
great natural abilities. His culture exhibited, for the age in 
which he lived, almost a .cosmopolitan completeness. And 
lastly, beyond any other man of his time, he fixed the fluctuat- 
ing language of the age in a permanent form, and laid a firm 
basis for the English of the present da3^ Like Homer in 
Greece, Chaucer stands pre-eminent in the early literature of 
England ; and among the great English poets of subsequent 
ages, not more than three or four — Shakespeare, Milton, Spen- 
ser, and Tennyson — deserve to be placed in the same rank. 

As with some other great authors, comparatively little is 
known of Chaucer's life. The most painstaking investigations 
have been comparatively fruitless. The time of his birth is 
a matter of dispute — the two dates given for that event being 
1328 and 1340. His father, as well as his grandfather, was a 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 25 

London wine-dealer. Nothing definite is known in regard to 
his education. The opinion formerly held that he studied at 
Cambridge or Oxford is without any satisfactory foundation. 
In the year 1357 an authentic record shows him attached to 
the household of Lady Elizabeth, wife of Prince Lionel, in the 
capacity of a page. In 1359 he accompanied Edward III. in 
an invasion of France ; and having been captured by the 
French, he was ransomed by the English king for sixteen 
pounds. The time and circumstances of his marriage are 
involved in obscurity, though it is tolerably certain that his 
domestic life was not happy. He subsequently served on 
embassies to Genoa, Flanders, and France, and acquitted him- 
self to the satisfaction of the Crown. He filled the ofhce of 
comptroller of customs in the port of London ; and like many 
others of strong literary bent, he appears to have felt the 
irksomeness of his routine duties : — 

"... When thy labor done all is, 
And hast y-made reckonings, 
Instead of rest and newe things 
Thou go'st home to thine house anon. 
And there as dumb as any stone 
Thou sittest at another book." 

In 1386 Chaucer was elected a member of Parliament, 
where he did not distinguish himself. In 1387, as well as can 
be determined, he lost his wife. After some vicissitudes of 
fortune, in which he found it necessary at one time to address 
a " Complaint to his Purse," he died in circumstances of com- 
fort and peace, Oct. 25, 1400. His body lies in Westminster 
Abbey, where his tomb is an object of tender interest in the 
famous Poets' Corner. 

Chaucer was small and slender in stature, looked upon the 
ground as he walked, and seemed absent or distracted in 
manner. This much is brought out in the few graphic touches 
with which the host of the Tabard and leader of the Canter- 
bury pilgrims draws the poet's portrait. After a most pathetic 



26 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

i-ilc ici-aied by the pr::rc>^. Ham- Bailly, as was meeiL, w;as 
the first to mternipt the silence : — 

^^ Affld ibeia at &sit lae Jbokad npooi moe, 

Aiiid saade ilAiQs: "Wlialt mara aitt tiMim?' qaothlie; 

' l^hsm. Imskesit as ttlaom wotmldssa: irad a. have, 

F<(»' ei^iar i^kdii tthe grommd I see thee staie. 

Approach onsre loear, ajuid kM2&:e meanify ! 

N<ow 'waie ytoim, s^is, aiod M tMs mam faa^^e ^nce. 

Me im the waist is shaped as well ^ I; 

TMs w«a-e a pa^spei m am ann to emhrace 

For a]i^ wonaaim, smaM and feir of iboe. 

He seemeth el^h bf^ h^ cxmiBlteHaaiioe, 

For lamtbo lao w^it doth he daJHiaiBoe.' " 

Wlaiie tine outward cireemstances of Chaucer "s life are so 
imperfectly kmowiii, we have abundant means to judge of Ms 
character and attainments. He is revealed to us in his ~rrr.- 
ings. He was famiH^ar with the court life of his time, bv : ~e 
caimot believe that he surrendered himself entirely to its : r 5 
and empty formalities. While he was not indiiSerent t: ':.- 
enjoyments of social life, he set his heart on hi^er t:: : _5 
He lecognized tme worth wherever he found it, r^jandle-^ : 
the accident of birth or wealth- He seems in no small : r _ - 
ure to have embodied the intj^iity and gentleness wL:::. ':.- 
fondly asfixibes to the chaiacter of the genfleman : — 

"'' Look, who that is mtost viitWH^ alway 
Pswy aaad n^pem, amd iroiKt laHtoadidth aye 
To do the geiBtle deedes that he can. 
Take Mm for the ^eat£st geiitleiDan. 
QiiM wills we daim off Him ocir gemtlene^ 
^ot off ©JUT eldeis few their old lidBes." 

Chaucer was a diligent student, with a passionate fondness 

for books : 

** Amd as ff<a«r me, tthoa^a I have kmowled^ s]|%htt. 
In hooki^ for tto read I me del^htt. 

And to thran ^ipe I ffaith and fdll ciedt^Bce, 
And in my heart li^ve thmn in lei'oenoe-" 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 2 J 

He was familiar with the scholastic learning of his time. 
He was acquainted with French, Latin, and Italian, and drew 
upon the literature of all these languages for the material of 
his writings. Unlike his contemporary Gower, he was not 
overborne by the weight of his learning. His native intellect- 
ual strength was exhibited in his extraordinary power of assim- 
ilation. In common with many other great poets, he was a 
prodigious borrower, using his lofty genius, not in the work of 
pure invention, but in glorifying materials already existing. 
He is a striking illustration of the personal element in litera- 
ture. Gower and Langland worked in the presence of the 
abundant literary materials of the fourteenth century; but only 
Chaucer had the ability to lay hold of it and to mould it into 
imperishable forms. 

Chaucer's love of nature was remarkable. It rivalled his 
passion for books. He tells us that there is nothing that can 
take him from his reading, — 

" Save, certainly, when that the month of May 
Is come, and that I hear the fowles sing, 
And see the flowers as they begin to spring. 
Farewell my book, and my devotion." 

His poetic nature responded to the beauties of the morning 
landscape, the matin carols of the birds, and the glories of the 
rising sun. The May-time was his favorite season ; and long 
before Burns and Wordsworth, he loved and sang of the daisy. 
The sight of this flower, as it opened to the sun, lightened his 
sorrow : — 

" And down on knees anon right I me set 
And as I could this freshe flower I grette, 
Kneeling always till it unclosed was 
Upon the small, and soft, and sweete grass." 

But he was a sympathetic and keen observer of men. He 
has never been excelled in portraiture. No other literature 
possesses such a portrait gallery as is contained in the Prologue 



28 EXGLISH LITERATURE. 

to the Canterbury' Tales. The various pilgrims at the Tabard 
can be seen and painted. Observe, for example, the line 
touches in the picture of the friar: — 

" Somewhat he lisped for his wantonness 
To make his English sweet upon his tongue ; 
And in his harping, when that he had sung, 
His even twinkled in his head aright, 
As do the starres in a frosty night." 

Though Dryden and Goldsmith have imitated Chaucer in 
describing an ideal pastor, they have both fallen below their 
master. Yet with this keenness of observation, this povs-er to 
detect the peculiarities and foibles of men. there is no admix- 
ture of cynicism. There is satire, but it is thornless. Chau- 
cer's writings are pervaded by an atmosphere of genial humor, 
kindness, tolerance, humanity. He says of the laAvyer. — 

" No where so busy a man as he there n'as, 
And yet he seemed busier than he was." 

He does full justice to the doctor of physic's various attain- 
ments, and then adds, 

" His study was but litel on the Bible."' 

Chaucer's treatment of woman in his works is full of 
interest. He is fond of satirizing the foibles supposed to be 
peculiar to the sex. But he is not wholly lost to chivalrous sen- 
timent, and nowhere else can we find higher and heartier praise 
of womanly patience, purity, and truth. He appears to have 
written the " Legend of Good Women "" as a kind of amends 
for the iniustice done the sex in the rest of his Avritings, After 
all. his real sentiments, let us hope, are found in the following 

lines : — 

" Alas, howe may we say on hem but w-ell, 
Of whom we were yfostered and ybore, 
And ben all our socoure, and trewe as stele, 
And for our sake ful oft they suffre sore? 
Without women were al our joy ylore," 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 29 

To many other admirable traits, Chaucer added that of 
courage in misfortune. His cheerful humor never deserted 
him. In his latter years he was sometimes without money; 
but instead of repining, he made a song to his empty purse : — 

" I am sorry now that ye be so light, 

For certes ye now make me heavy cheer." 

There are passages in his works that are very offensive 
to modern taste ; but they are not to be charged so much to 
Chaucer's love of indecency, as to the grossness of his age and 
to his artistic sense of justice. This is his own apology ; and 
in the prologue to one of the most objectionable tales, he begs 
his gentle readers — 

" For Goddes love, as deme not that I say 
Of evil intent, but that I mote reherse 
Hir tales alle, al be they bettre or werse, 
Or elles falsen some of my matere." 

Then he adds the kindly warning : — 

" And therefore who so list it not to here, 
Turn over the leef, and chese another tale." 

Upon the whole, the estimate of James Russell Lowell seems 
discriminating and just : " If character may be divined by 
works, he was a good man, genial, sincere, hearty, temperate of 
mind, more wise, perhaps, for this world than the next, but 
thoroughly human, and friendly with God and man." 

Chaucer's literary career may be divided into three periods. 
The first period is characterized by the influence of French 
models. He began his literary life with the translation of 
the Ro7na7i de la Rose — a poem of more than 22,000 lines, 
composed in the preceding century by Guillaume de Lorris and 
Jean de Meung. In the original works that followed this trans- 
lation — among which may be mentioned "The Court of Love" 
and "Chaucer's Dream" — the influence of French models 
is clearly apparent. 



30 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

The second period is characterized by an ItaUan influence, 
which showed itself in a more refined taste and more elegant 
handling of material. Italy was the first modern nation to 
produce a notable literature. Before Chaucer was born, Dante 
had written the Divina Cofjimedia ; and when the English poet 
was but two years old, Boccaccio was crowned in the Capitol at 
Rome. When in 1372 Chaucer was sent on a mission to 
Italy, it is possible that he met BoccacCio and Petrarch. Be 
that as it may, there can be no doubt that his mission led to 
a greater interest in Italian literature, from which he borrowed 
some of his choicest stories. To the Italian period are to be 
ascribed " Troilus and Cressida," taken from Boccaccio, and 
"The House of Fame," in which the influence of Dante can 
be traced. Italy helped Chaucer to unfold his native powers. 

The third period in his literary career is distinctly English. 
His powers reached their full maturity ; and instead of depend- 
ing upon foreign influence, the poet walked independent in his 
conscious strength. It was during this period, extending from 
about 1584 to the time of his death, that his greatest work, the 
" Canterbury Tales," was produced. 

This work calls for special notice. The idea seems to have 
been suggested by Boccaccio's Deca77iero?i. During the preva- 
lence of the plague in Florence in 1348, seven ladies and three 
gentlemen, all young, rich, and cultivated, retire to a beautiful 
villa a few miles from the city ; and in order to pass the time 
more agreeably, they relate to one another a series of tales. 
Such is the plan of the Decai7ie?-07i. Chaucer adopted the idea 
of a succession of stories, but invented a happier occasion for 
their narration. 

One evening in April a company of twenty-nine pilgrims, 
of various conditions in life, meet at the Tabard, a London inn, 
on their way to the shrine of St. Thomas a Becket at Can- 
terbury. At supper the jolly, amiable host offers to accompany 
them as guide ; and in order to relieve the tedium of the jour- 
ney, he proposes that each one shall tell two tales on the 
way to the tomb and the same number on their return. The 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 3 1 

one narrating the best tale is to receive a supper at the ex- 
pense of the others. The poet joins the party ; and in the 
" Prologue " he gives us, with great artistic and dramatic 
power, a description of the pilgrims. The various classes of 
English society — a knight, a lawyer, a doctor, an Oxford 
student, a miller, a prioress, a monk, a farmer — are all placed 
before us with marvellous distinctness. Not a single pecu- 
liarity of feature, dress, manner, or character escapes the 
microscopic scrutiny of the poet. The tales that follow — 
the whole number contemplated was never completed — are 
adapted to the several narrators ; and, taken altogether, they 
form the greatest literary work ever composed on the same 
plan. 



EJVGLISB' LITER A TURE. 



E PROLOGUE. 



Whabc lliat ApriEe wMi his sdhiowres swoote 
Tlie droioiglit of Mandie haih pearced to the roote^ 

Amd bathed ereij vejue m swich Mcoor, 
Of -which T^tme esigemdred is the fflouir ; 
"V^":^ .-- Z^-hiros eek with his swete breeflie 
Z : - _ :-. :k im everjr hdlte amd heethe 

T / 1 : T .1 :.: r ; ~ : ~ pe% aDid Ae jonge sonme 
r. :.'.:. :z '..'r "..izi ?ils halfe cotuis i-ioiuiey 



SM. melodie, 

^-^.T ^th open eye, 

!iere corages : — 
- - - - - "- - ■'"" 'Tniag eSp 
z:\-:. -::;/. :_r strondes. 



■^Jr 



And ssnaie i 
That ^epen 
So |Miketh 1 
Thanme loiu" 
And palmers : 
Tofomehal- t5 
And speciall " : : 
Of Emgcion : 
Thehotyt:.-: 
That hem h: ■ 

B jf el that, in 
Im SoMthweifc at :..r 7; :' 5 ' '.:." 
Red J to wenden : r. ;. _\ v:-t 
To CaHDaterbmiy ■ " ; . . ; t : ; ,_ t . 
At ni^t was ccr:. t : :. : : /, :- : / ; ^ : t . : . r 
Wei npae and twenty in a compainye. 
Of somdry folk, by aTentsnre i-falle 
In felawesehipe, amd pilgryms were thel allej 
T "-- : - : : " :-:: i Canmteirbiiry wolden ryde ; 
'Zl- :-ii-iizres and the stables werem! wrde. 
-Ind wel we waren esed atte beste. 
A::. ' s :' : ::!y, whan the sonne was to reste, 

: ' ?p^ken with hem eTervchon, 
7 ■ : - -^ : : ■ ; rre fdaweschipe anon, 
.--z. ■ ■ T : ;" ;.rd erfy for to lyse, 
7 ; : T ; . 7 'r ther as I yow devyse. 



3^ 



THE PROLOGUE. 33 

But natheles, whil I have tyme and space, 35 

Or that I forther in this tale pace, 

Me thinketh it acordaunt to resoun. 

To telle yow al the condicioun 

Of eche of hem, so as it semede me, 

And which e they weren, and of what degre ; 4° 

And eek in what array that they were inne : 

And at a knight than wol I first bygynne. 

A Knight ther was, and that a worthy man, 
That from the tyme that he first bigan 

To ryden out, he lovede chyvalrye, 45 

Trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisie. 
Ful worthi was he in his lordes werre. 
And therto hadde he riden, noman ferre, 
As wel in Cristendom as in hethenesse, 

And evere honoured for his worthinesse. 5° 

At Alisaundre he was whan it was wonne, 
Ful ofte tyme he hadde the bord bygonne 
Aboven alle naciouns in Pruce. 
In Lettowe hadde he reysed and in Ruce, 

No cristen man so ofte of his degre. 55 

In Gernade atte siege hadde he be 
Of Algesir, and riden in Belmarie. 
At Lieys was he, and at Satalie, 
Whan they were wonne ; and in the Greete see 
At many a noble arive hadde he be. 6o 

At mortal batailles hadde he ben fiftene. 
And foughten for oure feith at Tramassene 
In lystes thries, and ay slayn his foo. 
This ilke worthi knight hadde ben also 

Somtyme with the lord of Palatye, 65 

Ageyn another hethen in Turkye : 
And everemore he hadde a sovereyn prys. 
And though that he was worthy, he was wys. 
And of his port as meke as is a mayde. 

He nevere yit no vileinye ne sayde 70 

In al his lyf, unto no maner wight. 
He was a verray perfight gentil knight. 



34 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

But for to tellen you of his array, 

His hors was good, but he ne was nought gay. 

Of fustyan he werede a gepoun 75 

Al bysmotered with his habergeoun. 

For he was late ycome from his viage. 

And wente for to doon his pilgrimage. 

With him ther was his sone, a yong Squyer, 
A lovyere, and a lusty bacheler, 80 

With lokkes crulle as they were leyd in presse. 
Of twenty yeer of age he was I gesse. 
Of his stature he was of evene lengthe. 
And wonderly delyvere, and gret of strengthe. 
And he hadde ben somtyme in chivachie, 85 

In Flaundres, in Artoys, and Picardie, 
And born him wel, as of so litel space, 
In hope to stonden in his lady grace. 
Embrowded was he, as it were a mede 

Al ful of fresshe floures, white and reede. 90 

Syngynge he was, or floytynge, al the day; 
He was as fressh as is the moneth of May. 
Schort was his goune, with sleeves longe and wyde. 
Wel cowde he sitte on hors, and faire ryde. 
He cowde songes make, and v/el endite, 95 

Juste and eek daunce, and wel purtreye and write. 
So hote he lovede, that by nightertale 
He sleep nomore than doth a nightyngale. 
Curteys he was, lowely, and servysable, 
And carf byforn his fader at the table. 100 

A Yeman hadde he and servauntz nomoo 
At that tyme, for him luste ryde soo ; 
And he was clad in coote and hood of grene. 
A shef of pocok arwes brighte and kene 

Under his belte he bar ful thriftily. 105 

Wel cowde he dresse his takel yemanly ; 
His arwes drowpede nought with fetheres lowe. 
And in his hond he bar a mighty bowe. 
A not-heed hadde he with a broun visage. 
Of woode-craft well cowde he al the usage. "o 



THE PROLOGUE. 35 

Upon his arm he bar a gay bracer, 

And by his side a swerd and bokeler, 

And on that other side a gay daggere, 

Harneysed wel, and scharp as poynt of spere; 

A Cristofre on his brest of silver schene. 115 

An horn he bar, the bawdrik was of grene ; 

A forster was he sothly, as I gesse. 

Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse, 
That of hire smylyng was ful symple and coy ; 
Hire gretteste 00th ne was but by seynt Loy ; 120 

And sche was cleped madame Eglentyne. 
Ful wel sche sang the servise divyne, 
Entuned in hire nose ful semely ; 
And Frensch sche spak ful faire and fetysly, 
After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe, ' 125 

For Frensch of Parys was to hire unknowe. 
At mete wel i-taught was sche withalle ; 
Sche leet no morsel from hire lippes falle, 
Ne wette hire fyngres in hire sauce deepe. 
Wel cowde sche carie a morsel, and wel keepe, 130 

That no drope ne fille uppon hire breste. 
In curteisie was set ful moche hire leste. 
Hire overlippe wypede sche so clene, 
That in hire cuppe was no ferthing sene 

Of greece, whan sche dronken hadde hire draughte. 135 

Ful semely after hire mete sche raughte, 
And sikerly sche was of gret disport. 
And ful plesaunt, and amyable of port. 
And peynede hire to countrefete cheere 

Of court, and ben estatlich of manere, 140 

And to ben holden digne of reverence. 
But for to speken of hire conscience, 
Sche was so charitable and so pitous, 
Sche wolde weepe if that sche sawe a mous 
Caught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde. 145 

Of smale houndes hadde sche, that sche fedde 
With rosted flessh, or mylk and wastel breed. 
But sore wepte sche if oon of hem were deed. 



36 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Or if men smot it with a yerde smerte : 

And al was conscience and tendre herte. 

Ful semel}- hire wympel i-pynched was : 

Hire nose tretys ; hire eyen greye as glas : 

Hire mouth ful smal, and therto softe and reed: 

But sikerly sche hadde a fair forheed. 

It was ahnost a spanne brood, I trowe ; 

For hardily sche was not undergrowe. 

Ful fetys was hire cloke, as I was waar. 

Of smal coral aboute hire arm sche baar 

A peire of bedes gauded al with grene : 



i6o 



On which was first i-write a crowned A. 
And after Amor vincit o?nnia. 
Another Noxne with hire hadde sche. 
That was hire chapeleyne. and Prestes thre. 

A ]MoxK ther was, a fair for the maistrie, 165 

An out-rydere, that lov'ede venerye : 
A manly man. to ben an abbot able. 
Ful many a deynte hors hadde he in stable : 
And whan he rood, men mighte his bridel heere 
Gynglen in a whisthmg wynd as cleere. 170 

And eek as lowde as doth the chapel belle. 
Ther as this lord was kepere of the selle, 
The reule of seynt Maure or of seint Beneyt, 
Bycause that it was old and somdel streyt, 
This ilke monk leet olde thinges pace. 175 

And held after the newe world the space. 
He gaf not of that text a pulled hen. 
That seith, that hunters been noon holy men ; 
Ne that a monk, whan he is reccheles 

Is likned to a fissch that is waterles ; 180 

This is to seyn, a monk out of his cloystre. 
But thilke text held he not worth an oystre. 
And I seide his opinioun was good. 
What schulde he studie, and make himselven wood, 
Uppon a book in cloystre alway to powre, 185 

Or swynke with his handes, and laboure, 



THE PROLOGUE. ^y 

As Aiistyn byt ? How schal the world be served ? 
Lat Austyn have his swynk to him reserved. 
Therfore he was a pricasour aright ; 

Greyhoundes he hadde as swifte as fowel in flight ; 19° 

Of prikyng and of huntyng for the hare 
Was al his lust, for no cost wolde he spare. 
I saugh his sieves puriiled atte honde 
With grys, and that the fyneste of a londe. 
And for to festne his hood under his chynne 195 

He hadde of gold y-wrought a curious pynne : 
A love-knotte in the grettere ende ther was. 
His heed was balled, that schon as eny glas, 
And eek his face as he hadde ben anoynt. 
He was a lord ful fat and in good poynt ; 200 

His eyen steepe, and rollyng in his heede, 
That stemede as a forneys of a leede ; 
-His bootes souple, his hors in gret estate. 
Now certeinly he was a fair prelate ; 

He was not pale as a for-pyned goost. 205 

A fat swan lovede he best of eny roost. 
His palfrey was as broun as is a berye. 

A Frere ther was, a wantown and a merye, 
A lymytour, a ful solempne man. 

In alle the ordres foure is noon that can 210 

So moche of daliaunce and fair langage. 
He hadde i-mad ful many a mariage 
Of yonge wymmen, at his owne cost. 
Unto his ordre he was a noble post. 

Ful wel biloved and famulier was he 215 

With frankeleyns over-al in his cuntre. 
And eek with worthi wommen of the toun : 
For he hadde power of confessioun, 
As seyde himself, more than a curat, 

Forof his ordre he was licentiat. 220 

Ful sweetely herde he confessioun, 
And plesaunt was his absolucioun ; 
He was an esy man to geve penaunce 
Ther as he wiste han a good pitaunce ; 



38 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

For unto a poure ordre for to give 225 

Is signe that a man is wel i-schrive. 

For if he gaf, he dorste make avaunt, 

He wiste that a man was repentaunt. 

For many a man so hard is of his herte, 

He may not wepe ahhough him sore smerte. 230 

Therfore in stede of wepyng and preyeres, 

Men moot give silver to the poure freres. 

His typet was ay farsed ful of knyfes 

And pynnes, for to give faire wyfes. 

And certeynli he hadde a mery noote ; 235 

Wel couthe he synge and pleyen on a rote. 

Of yeddynges he bar utterly the prys. 

His nekke whit was as the flour-de-lys. 

Therto he strong was as a champioun. 

He knew the tavernes wel in every toun, 240 

And everych hostiler and tappestere, 

Bet then a lazer, or a beggestere, 

For unto swich a worthi man as he 

Acordede not, as by his faculty, 

To han with sike lazars aqueyntaunce. 245 

It is not honest, it may not avaunce, 

For to delen with no swich a poraille, 

But al with riche and sellers of vitaille. 

And overal, ther as profyt schulde arise, 

Curteys he was, and lowely of servyse. 250 

Ther nas no man nowher so vertuous. 

He was the beste beggere in his hous. 

For though a widewe hadde noght 00 schoo, 

So plesaunt was his /;/ principio, 

Yet wolde he have a ferthing or he wente. 255 

His purchas was wel bettre than his rente. 

And rage he couthe as it were right a whelpe, 

In love-dayes couthe he mochel helpe. 

For ther he was not lik a cloysterer, 

With thredbare cope as is a poure scoler, 260 

But he was lik a maister or a pope. 

Of double worstede was his semy-cope, 



THE PROLOGUE. 39 

That rounded as a belle out of the presse. 

Somvvhat he lipsede, for his wantownesse, 

To make his Englissch swete upon his tunge ; 265 

And in his harpyng, whan that he hadde sunge, 

His eyghen twynkled in his heed aright, 

As don the sterres in the frosty night. 

This worthi ly my tour was cleped Huberd. 

A Marchaunt was ther with a forked berd, 270 

In motteleye, and high on horse he sat, 
Uppon his heed a Flaundrisch bevere hat ; 
His botes elapsed faire and fetysly. 
His resons he spak ful solempnely, 

Sownynge alway thencres of his wynnynge. 275 

He wolde the see were kept for eny thinge 
Betwixe Middelburgh and Orewelle. 
Wei couthe he in eschaunge scheeldes selle. 
This worthi man ful wel his wit bisette ; 

Ther wiste no wight that he was in dette, 280 

So estatly was he of governaunce. 
With his bargayns, and with his chevysaunce. 
For sothe he was a worthi man withalle. 
But soth to sayn, I not how men him calle. 

A Clerk ther was of Oxenford also, 285 

That unto logik hadde longe i-go. 
As lene was his hors as is a rake, 
And he was not right fat, I undertake ; 
But lokede holwe, and therto soberly. 

Ful thredbare was his overeste courtepy, 290 

For he hadde geten him yit no benefice, 
Ne was so worldly for to have office. 
For him was levere have at his beddes heede 
Twenty bookes, i-clad in blak or reede, 

Of Aristotle and his philosophic, 295 

Then robes riche, or fithele, or gay sawtrie. 
But al be that he was a philosophre. 
Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre ; 
But al that he mighte of his frendes hente. 
On bookes and on lernyng he it spente, 3°° 



40 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

And busily gam fcM* flie som'. r 5 ;: re- t 

Of hem thaf ga£ him when^ - : : ^ t" t 

Of stodie took he most corf .1 7^:7 

Not 00 wcMnd spak he more : : t 

And that was sod in fcHnmt .1 ; t . . : t 305 

Asad sdaoit aiad sjiiyk, and f _ . t : — ; . : -- r. : f 

Sowmym^ im mmral vertu ^ .i r . . i : f : / 7 

And ;^'ii-;' ^'' :.: \\r '.rrr.r :,:::.. ^. :.:../- :-:.:.z 

That ©xtt :'. ,\ : 1 r : f r. .1 : : r j»aiTys, 3*® 

Thd^ wai. al^: : . - :_: /.r :: fxrellsjice. 

Disaet he w .1 - .1 :: i : : rr t : r t " " treii ce : 

He sonede f- ; \\ . . 5 . .: r 5 - t : t :: 5 : — 3e.. 

Jioslice he "Wi-s : j . : ; : r :. :. .- 5 5 : - t 

By pateafee, and by l^e;-:. : : z\ z:\ . .^ r : .: :. 315 

For his soenace, and f ■; r : . . 5 1 z : '.\ : z :. : . :. 

Of fees and robes had ir .r r.i:.; : : r. 

So giet a pMinchasoiar ~ 1 5 ". . . t ; j. : : z 

Al was fee sym^e to '-. zz z zTzI z 

His pimchasvnff mighir ~ i _ ^j z'. _ f i. zzzz 1 1^ 3^® 

Mowhar so besy a ma r .-- 5 . . 7 - :. t : : . .- - 

And yit he seemede br5 . r ." '. .'. . . 7 '. ~ 

Im termes hadde he cs.2.5 :-- z :. z ; ~ ; 7 5 .- . . 7 

Thatfinotihelyimeof X;l^ ''■'.:z\z: -"z:z ii^t. 

Thoto he ooiithe oid:: 7 1 1 .: zz i •: t \ : z : z^. J^:- 

Ther csoniflae no wi^it z "z z z _ .- " r. r 

And evfary statnSe coc:.". 7 . 7 _ . 7 ;\ . : : : t 

He rood but ho«Mnty ir :-. zz zi.z : : : : 7 

Gild witfli a seynt of si'd-: ^ - : . . : .1 ~ 7 - 5 z\ lie ; 

Of his array tele I no .7::. ^- 7 : : z. z 330 

A Frasjkexeyisi w :, 5 r. z z :: z ; z 

Whit was his beide, s.? ; z\z i:z-z--z 
Of his complexioiin ht ^^ i ? f :. z r - ~:'- 

Wel lovede he by the r:-. : 7 : ? ip -^ Wym. 

To lyven in delitte was : - :~e. 3135 

For he was Epiciiinas •: ~ r. 7 ? : , z 
That hedid opynyoon ": i : : 7 :. - 7 . r: 
Was Tenraily fs^kibt perr : 



THE PROLOGUE. 4 1 

An houshaldere, and that a gret, was he ; 

Seynt Julian he was in his countre. 340 

His breed, his ale, was alway after oon ; 

A bettre envyned man was nowher noon. 

Withoute bake mete was nevere his hous. 

Of flessch and fissch, and that so plenteuous, 

Hit snewede in his hous of mete and drynke, 345 

Of alle deyntees that men cowde thynke. 

After the sondry sesouns of the yeer, 

So chaungede he his mete and his soper. 

Ful many a fat partrich hadde he in mewe, 

And many a brem and many a luce in stewe. 35° 

Woo was his cook, but-if his sauce were 

Poynaunt and scharp, and redy al his gere. 

His table dormant in his halle alway 

Stood redy covered al the longe day. 

At sessiouns ther was he lord and sire. 355 

Ful ofte tyme he was knight of the schire. 

An aulas and a gipser al of silk 

Heng at his girdel, whit as morne mylk. 

A schirreve hadde he ben, and a countour ; 

Was nowher such a worthi vavasour. 360 

An Haberdasshere and a Carpenter, 
A Webbe, a Deyere, and a Tapicer, 
And they were clothed alle in 00 lyver^, 
Of a solempne and a gret fraternity. 

Ful fressh and newe here gere apiked was ; 365 

Here knyfes were i-chaped nat with bras, 
But al with silver wrought ful clene and wel. 
Here gurdles and here pouches every del. 
Wel semede ech of hem a fair burgeys. 

To sitten in a geldehalle on a deys. 370 

Everych for the wisdom that he can. 
Was schaply for to ben an alderman. 
For catel hadde they inough and rente, 
And eek here wyfes wolde it wel assente ; 
And elles certeyn were thei to blame. 375 

It is ful fair to ben yclept Madame, 



42 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

And to gon to vigilies ai byfore, 
And han a mantel riallyche i-bore. 

A Cook thei hadde with hem for the nones, 
To boylle chyknes with the mary bones, 380 

And poudre-marchaunt tart, and galyngale. 
Wei cowde he knowe a draughte of Londone ale. 
He cowde roste, and sethe, and broille, and frie, 
Maken mortreux, and wel bake a pye. 

But gret harm was it, as it thoughte me, 385 

That on his schyne a mormal hadde he, 
For blankmanger that made he with the beste. 

A ScHiPMAN was ther, wonyng fer by weste : 
For ought I woot, he was of Dertemouthe. 
He rood upon a rouncy, as he couthe, 390 

In a gowne of faldyng to the kne. 
A daggere hangyng on a laas hadde he 
Aboute his nekke under his arm adoun. 
The hoote somer hadde maad his hew al broun; 
And certeinly he was a good felawe. 395 

Ful many a draughte of wyn hadde he ydrawe 
From Burdeux-ward, whil that the chapman sleep. 
Of nyce conscience took he no keep. 
If that he faughte, and hadde the heigher hand, 
By water he sente hem hoom to every land. 4°° 

But of his craft to rekne wel his tydes, 
His stremes and his daungers him bisides. 
His herbergh and his mone, his lodemenage, 
Ther was non such from Hulle to Cartage. 
Hardy he was, and wys to undertake ; 405 

With many a tempest hadde his berd ben schake. 
He knew wel alle the havenes, as thei were, 
From Gootlond to the cape of Fynystere, 
And every cryke in Bretayne and in Spayne ; 
His barge y-cleped was the Maudelayne. 41° 

With us ther was a Doctour of Phisik, 
In al this world ne was ther non him lyk 
To speke of phisik and of surgerye ; 
For he was grounded in astronomye. 



THE PROLOGUE. 43 

He kepte his pacient wonderly wel 4^5 

In houres by his magik naturel. 

Wel cowde he fortunen the ascendent 

Of his ymages for his pacient. 

He knew the cause of every maladye, 

Were it of hoot or cold, or moyste, or drye, 420 

And where engendred, and of what humour; 

He was a verrey parfight practisour. 

The cause i-knowe, and of his hSrm the roote, 

Anon he gaf the syke man his boote. 

Ful redy hadde he his apotecaries, 425 

To sende him dragges, and his letuaries, 

For ech of hem made other for to* wynne ; 

Here frendschipe nas not newe to begynne. 

Wel knew he the olde Esculapius, 

And Deiscorides, and eek Rufus ; 43° 

Old Ypocras, Haly, and Galien; 

Serapyon, Razis, and Avycen ; 

Averrois, Damascien, and Constantyn ; 

Bernard, and Gatesden, and Gilbertyn. 

Of his diete mesurable was he, 435 

For it was of no superfluity, 

But of gret norisching and digestible. 

His studie was but litel on the Bible. 

In sangwin and in pers he clad was al, 

Lined with taffata and with sendal. 440 

And yit he w^as but esy of dispence ; 

He kepte that he wan in pestilence. 

For gold in phisik is a cordial, 

Therfore he lovede gold in special. 

A good WiF was ther of byside Bathe, 445 

But sche was somdel deef, and that was skathe. 
Of cloth-makyng she hadde such an haunt, 
Sche passede hem of Ypres and of Gaunt. 
In al the parisshe wyf ne was ther noon 

That to the offryng byforn hire schulde goon, 45° 

And if ther dide certeyn so wroth was sche, 
That sche was out of alle charity. 



44 EXGLISH LITERATURE. 

Hire keverchefs ful fyne weren of grounde ; 

I durste swere they weygheden ten pounde 

That on a Sonday were upon hire heed. 455 

Hire hosen weren of f}"n scarlet reed, 

Ful streyte y-teyd, and schoos ful moyste and newe. 

Bold was hire face, and fair, and reed of hewe. 

Sche was a worthy womman al hire lyfe, 

Housbondes at chirche dore sche hadde fyfe, 460 

Withouten other compfinye in youthe ; 

But therof needeth nought to speke as nouthe. 

And thries hadde sche ben at Jerusalem : 

Sche hadde passed many a straunge streem ; 

At Rome sche hadde ben. and at Boloyne, 465 

In Galice at seynt Jame, and at Coloyne. 

Sche cowde moche of wandrj^ng by the weye. 

Gat-tothed was sche, sothly for to seye. 

Uppon an amblere esily sche sat, 

Ywympled wel. and on hire heed an hat 47° 

As brood as is a bokeler or a targe ; 

A foot-mantel aboute hire hipes large. 

And on hire feet a paire of spores scharpe. 

In felaweschipe wel cowde sche lawghe and carpe. 

Of remedye's of love sche knew parchaunce. 475 

For of that art sche couthe the olde daunce. 

A good man was ther of religioun, 
And was a poure Persoux of a toun : 
But riche he was of holy thought and werk. 
He was also a lerned man, a clerk 480 

That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche ; 
His parischens devoutly wolde he teche. 
Benigne he was. and wonder diligent. 
And in adversite ful pacient : 

And such he was i-proved ofte sithes, 485 

Ful loth were him to curse for his t}-thes, 
But rather wolde he geven out of dowte. 
Unto his poure parisschens aboute, 
Of his offrynge. and eek of his substaunce. 
He cowde in litel thing han suftisaunce, 49° 



J 



THE PROLOGUE. 45 

Wyd was his parische, and houses fer asonder, 

But he ne lafte not for reyne ne thonder, 

In siknesse nor in meschief to visite 

The ferreste in his parissche, moche and Hte, 

Uppon his feet, and in his hond a staf. 495 

This noble ensample to his scheep he gaf, 

That first he wroughte, and afterward he taughte, 

Out of the gospel he the worde§ caughte, 

And this figure he addede eek therto, 

That if gold ruste, what schal yren doc ? 500 

For if a prest be foul, on whom we truste, 

No wonder is a lewed man to ruste ; 

And schame it is, if that a prest take kepe, 

A [foule] schepherde and a clene schepe ; 

Wei oughte a prest ensample for to give, 505 

By his clennesse, how that his scheep schulde lyve. 

He sette not his benefice to hyre, 

And leet his scheep encombred in the myre, 

And ran to Londone, unto seynte Poules, 

To seeken him a chaunterie for soules, 510 

Or with a bretherhede to ben withholde ; 

But dwelte at hoom, and kepte wel his folde, 

So that the wolf ne made it not myscarye ; 

He was a schepherde and no mercenarie. 

And though he holy were, and vertuous, 515 

He was to sinful man nought despitous, 

Ne of his speche daungerous ne digne. 

But in his teching discret and benigne. 

To drawe folk to heven by fairnesse. 

By good ensample, this was his busynesse : 520 

But it were eny persone obstinat. 

What so he were, of high or lowe estat. 

Him wolde he snybbe scharply for the nones. 

A bettre preest, I trowe, ther nowher non is. 

He waytede after no pompe and reverence, 525 

Ne makede him a spiced conscience. 

But Cristes lore, and his apostles twelve. 

He taughte, but first he folwede it himselve. 



46 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

With him ther was a Ploughman, was his brother, 
That hadde i-lad of dong ful many a fother, 530 

A trewe swynkere and a good was he, 
Lyvynge in pees and perfight charitee. 
God lovede lie best witli al his hoole herte 
At alle tymes, though him gamede or smerte, 
And thanne his neighebour right as himselve. 535 

He wolde thresshe, and therto dyke and delve, 
For Cristes sake, with every poure wight, 
Withouten hyre, if it laye in his might. 
His tythes payede he ful faire and wel, 

Bothe of his owne swynk and his catel. 540 

In a tabard he rood upon a mere. 

Ther was also a Reeve and a Mellere, 
A Sompnour and a Pardoner also, 
A Maunciple, and my self, ther were no mo. 

The Mellere was a stout carl for the nones, 545 

Ful big he was of braun, and eek of boones ; 
That prevede wel, for overal ther he cam, 
At wrastlynge he wolde have alwey the ram. 
He was schort schuldred, brood, a thikke knarre, 
Ther nas ng dore that he nolde heve of harre, 55P 

Or breke it at a rennyng with his heed. 
His berd as ony sowe or fox was reed, 
And therto brood, as though it were a spade. 
Upon the cop right of his nose he hade 

A werte, and theron stood a tuft of heres, 555 

Reede as the berstles of a sowes eeres. 
His nose-thurles blake were and wyde. 
A swerd and bokeler baar he by his side. 
His mouth as wyde was as a gret forneys. 

He was a janglere and a golyardeys, 560 

And that was most of synne and harlotries. 
Wel cowde he stele corn, and tollen thries ; 
And yet he hadde a thombe of gold pard6. 
A whit cote and a blew hood werede he. 

A baggepipe w^l cowde he blowe and sowne, 565 

And therwithal he broughte us out of towne. 



THE PROLOGUE. 4/ 

A gentil Maunciple was ther of a temple, 
Of which achatours mighten take exemple 
For to be wyse in beyying of vitaille. 

For whether that he payde, or took by taille, 57° 

Algate he waytede so in his achate, 
That he was ay biforn and in good state. 
Now is not that of God a ful fair grace, 
That such a lewed mannes wit schal pace 

The wisdom of an heep of lernede men ? 575 

Of maystres hadde he moo than thries ten. 
That were of lawe expert and curious ; 
Of which ther were a doseyne in that house, 
Worthi to ben stiwardes of rente and lond 

Of any lord that is in Engelond, 5^° 

To make him lyve by his propre good, 
In honour detteles, but-if he were wood. 
Or lyve as scarsly as hym list desire ; 
And able for to helpen al a schire 

In any caas that mighte falle or happe ; 5^5 

And yit this maunciple sette here aller cappe. 

The Reeve was a sklendre colerik man. 
His berd was schave as neigh as evere he can. 
His heer was by his eres ful round i-shorn. 
His top was docked lyk a preest biforn. 59° 

Ful longe wern his legges, and ful lene, 
Y-lik a staf, ther was no calf y-sene. 
Wei cowde he kepe a gerner and a bynne : 
Ther was non auditour cowde on him wynne. 
Wei wiste he by the droughte, and by the reyn, 595 

The yeeldyng of his seed, and of his greyn. 
His lordes scheep, his neet, his dayerie, 
His swyn, his hors, his stoor, and his pultrie, 
Was holly in this reeves governynge, 

And by his covenaunt gaf the rekenynge, 6oo 

Syn that his lord was twenti yeer of age ; 
Ther couthe no man bringe him in arrerage. 
Ther nas bailhf, ne herde, ne other hyne, 
That he ne knew his sleighte and his covyne ; 



ENGLISH LITER A TURE. 

They were adrad of him,- as of the dethe. 605 

His wonyng was ful fair upon an hethe, 

With grene trees i-schadwed was his place. 

He cowde bettre than his lord purchace. 

Ful riche he was astored prively, 

His lord wel couthe he plese subtilly, 610 

To geve and lene him of his owne good, 

And have a thank, and yet a cote, and hood. 

In youthe he lerned hadde a good mester ; 

He was a wel good wrighte, a carpenter. 

This reeve sat upon a ful good stot, 615 

That was al pomely gray, and highte Scot. 

A long surcote of pers uppon he hade, 

And by his side he bar a rusty blade. 

Of Northfolk was this reeve of which I telle, 

Byside a toun men clepen Baldeswelle. 620 

Tukked he was, as is a frere, aboute, 

And evere he rood the hyndreste of the route. 

A SoMPNOUR was ther with us in that place, 
That hadde a fyr-reed cherubynes face, 

For sawceflem he was, with eyghen narwe. 625 

And [quyk] he was, and [chirped], as a sparwe, 
With skalled browes blake, and piled berd ; 
Of his visage children weren aferd. 
Ther nas quyksilver, litarge, ne bremstoon, 
Boras, ceruce, ne oille of tartre noon. 63c 

Ne oynement that wolde dense and byte. 
That him mighte helpen of his whelkes white, 
Ne of the knobbes sittyng on his cheekes. 
Wel lovede he garleek, onyouns, and ek leekes, 
And for to drinke strong wyn reed as blood. 635 

Thanne wolde he speke, and crye as he were wood. 
And whan that he wel dronken hadde the wyn, 
Than wolde he speke no word but Latyn. 
A fewe termes hadde he, tuo or thre, 

That he hadde lerned out of som decree ; 640 

No wonder is, he herde it al the day ; 
And eek ye knowen wel, how that a jay 



THE PROLOGUE. 49 

Can clepen Watte, as wel as can the pope. 

But who so wolde in other thing him grope, 

Thanne hadde he spent al his philosophic, 645 

Ay, Questio quid Juris, wolde he crye. 

He was a gentil harlot and a kynde ; 

A bettre felawe schulde men noght fynde. 

He wolde suffre for a quart of wyn 

A good felawe to have his concubyn 650 

A twelf moneth, and excuse him atte fulle : 

And prively a fynch eek cowde he pulle. 

And if he fond owher a good felawe. 

He wolde techen him to han non awe 

In such caas of the archedeknes curs, * 655 

But-if a mannes soule were in his purs ; 

For in his purs he scholde y-punyssched be. 

" Purs is the erchedeknes helle," quod he. 

But well I woot he lyede right in dede ; 

Of cursyng oghte ech gulty man him drede ; 660 

For curse wol slee right as assoillyng saveth ; 

And also war him of a sigtiificavit. 

In daunger hadde he at his owne gise 

The yonge gurles of the diocise, 

And knew here counseil, and was al here reed. 665 

A garland hadde he set upon his heed. 

As gret as it were for an ale-stake ; 

A bokeler hadde he maad him of a cake. 

With him ther rood a gentil Pardoner 
Of Rouncivale, his frend and his comper, 670 

That streyt was comen from the court of Rome. 
Ful lowde he sange, ' Com hider, love, to me.' 
This sompnour bar to him a stif burdoun. 
Was nevere trompe of half so gret a soun, 
This pardoner hadde heer as yelwe as wex, 675 

But smothe it heng, as doth a strike of flex ; 
By unces hynge his lokkes that he hadde, 
And therwith he his schuldres overspradde. 
Ful thinne it lay, by culpons on and oon. 
But hood, for jolitee, ne werede he noon, 680 



50 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

For it was trussed up inhis walet. 

Him thoughte he rood al of the newe get, 

Dischevele, sauf his cappe, he rood al bare. 

Suche glaryng eyghen hadde he as an hare. 

A vernicle hadde he sowed upon his cappe. 685 

His walet lay byforn him in his lappe, 

Bret-ful of pardoun come from Rome al hoot. 

A voys he hadde as smal as eny goot. 

No herd hadde he, ne nevere scholde have, 

As smothe it was as it were late i-schave ; 690 

I trowe he were a geldyng or a mere. 

But of his craft, fro Bervvyk into Ware, 

Ne was ther such another pardoner. 

For in his male he hadde a pilwebeer, 

Which that, he seide, was oure lady veyl : 695 

He seide, he hadde a gobet of the seyl 

That seynt Peter hadde, whan that he wente 

Uppon the see, til Jhesu Crist him hente. 

He hadde a croys of latoun ful of stones, 

And in a glas he hadde pigges bones. 700 

But with these reliques, whan that he fond 

A poure persoun dwellyng uppon lond. 

Upon a day he gat him more moneye 

Than that the persoun gat in monthes tweye. 

And thus with feyned flaterie and japes, 705 

He made the persoun and the people his apes. 

But trewely to tellen atte laste, 

He was in churche a noble ecclesiaste. 

Wei cowde he rede a lessoun or a storye. 

But altherbest he sang an offertorie ; 710 

For wel he wyste, w^han that song was songe, 

He moste preche, and wel affyle his tonge. 

To %^^nne silver, as he right wel cowde ; 

Therefore he sang ful meriely and lowde. 

Now have I told you schortly in a clause 715 

Thestat, th array, the nombre, and eek the cause 
Why that assembled was this compainye 
In Southwerk at this g-entil hostelrie. 



THE PROLOGUE. 5 I 

That highte the Tabard, faste by the Belle. 

But now is tyme to yow for to telle 720 

How that we bare us in that ilke night, 

Whan we were in that hostelrie alight ; 

And after wol I telle of oure viage, 

And al the remenaunt of oure pilgrimage. 

But first 1 pray you of your curteisie, 725 

That ye ne rette it nat my vileinye, 

Though that I pleynly speke in this matere, 

To telle you here wordes and here cheere ; 

Ne though I speke here wordes proprely. 

For this ye knowen also wel as I, 730 

Whoso schal telle a tale after a man, 

He moot reherce, as neigh as evere he can, 

Everych word, if it be in his charge, 

Al speke he nevere so rudelyche and large ; 

Or elles he moot telle his tale untrewe, 735 

Or feyne thing, or fynde wordes newe. 

He may not spare, although he Avere his brother ; 

He moot as wel seyn 00 word as another. 

Crist spak himself ful broode in holy writ, 

And wel ye woote no vileinye is it. 74° 

Eek Plato seith, whoso that can him rede, 

The wordes mote be cosyn to the dede. 

Also I praye you to forgeve it me, 

Al have I nat set folk in here degre 

Here in this tale, as that thei schulde stonde ; 745 

My wit is schort, ye may wel understonde. 

Greet cheere made oure host us everchon. 
And to the souper sette he us anon ; 
And servede us with vitaille atte beste. 

Strong was the wyn, and wel to drynke us leste. 75° 

A semely man oure hoost he was withalle 
For to han been a marschal in an halle ; 
A large man he was with eyghen stepe, 
A fairer burgeys was ther noon in Chepe : 
Bold of his speche, and wys and wel i-taught, 755 

And of manhede him lakkede rig-ht naught. 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Eek therto he was right -a mery man. 

And after soper playen he bygan. 

And spak of mjTthe amonges othre thinges, 

WTian that we hadde maad our rekenynges ; 760 

And sayde thus : " Lo, lord^nges, trewely 

Ye ben to me right welcome hertely : 

For by my trouthe, if that I schal not lye, 

I saugh nought this yeer so mery a companye 

At oones in this herbergh as is now. 765 

Fayn wolde I don yow mirfhe, wiste I how. 

And of a mirthe I am right now bythought. 

To doon you eese, and it schal coste nought. 

Ye goon to Caunterbury ; God you speede. 

The blisf ul martir quyte you youre meede ! 77° 

And wel I woot, as ye gon by the weye. 

Ye schapen yow to talen and to pleye ; 

For trewely confort ne mirthe is noon 

To lyde by the weye domb as a stoon ; 

And therfore wol I maken you disport, 775 

As I seyde erst, and don you som confort. 

And if yow liketh aUe by oon assent 

Now for to standen at my juggement. 

And for to werken as I schal you seye, 

To morwe, whan ye riden by the weye, 780 

Now by my fader soule that is deed. 

But ye be nierye. I wol geve myn heed. 

Hold up youre hond withoute more speche.' 

Oure counseil was not longe for to seche ; 

Us thoughte it nas nat worth to make it wys, 7S5 

And grauntede him withoute more ayys. 

And bad him seie his verdite, as him leste. 

*- Lordynges," quoth he, " now herkneth for the beste : 

But taketh it not, I praye you, in desdeyn ; 

This is the poynt, to speken schort and pleyn, 79° 

That ech of yow to schorte with oure weie, 

In this viage, schal teUe tales tweye. 

To Caunterburi-ward. I mene it so. 

And hom-ward he schal tellen othere tuo. 



THE PROLOGUE. 53 

Of aventures that whilom han bifalle. 795 

And which of yow that bereth him best of alle, 

That is to seyn, that telleth in this caas 

Tales of best sentence and most solas, 

Schal han a soper at oure alther cost 

Here in this place sittynge by this post, 800 

Whan that we come ageyn from Caunterbury. 

And for to maken you the more mery, 

I wol myselven gladly with you ryde. 

Right at myn owen cost, and be youre gyde. 

And whoso wole my juggement withseie 805 

Schal paye al that we spenden by the weye. 

And if ye vouchesauf that it be so, 

Telle me anoon, withouten wordes moo, 

And I wole erely schape me therfore." 

This thing was graunted, and oure othes swore 810 

With ful glad herte, and prayden him also 

That he wold vouchesauf for to doon so, 

And that he wolde ben oure governour. 

And of oure tales jugge and reportour, 

And sette a souper at a certeyn prys ; 815 

And we wolde rewled ben at his devys. 

In heygh and lowe ; and thus by oon assent 

We been acorded to his juggement. 

And thereupon the wyn was fet anoon ; 

We dronken, and to reste wente echoon, 820 

Withouten eny lenger taryinge. 

A morwe whan the day bigan to sprynge. 

Up roos oure host, and was oure alther cok. 

And gadrede us togidre alle in a flok. 

And forth we riden a litel more than pass, 825 

Unto the waterynge of seint Thomas. 

And there oure host bigan his hors areste. 

And seyde ; " Lordes, herkneth if yow leste. 

Ye woote youre forward, and I it you recorde. 

If even-song and morwe-song accorde, 830 

Lat se now who schal telle first a tale. 

As evere moot I drinke wyn or ale. 



54 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Whoso be rebel to my juggement 

Schal paye for al that by the weye is spent. 

Now draweth cut, er that we ferrer twynne ; 835 

He which that hath the schorteste schal bygynne." 

" Sire knight," quoth he, "my maister and my lord, 

Now draweth cut, for that is myn acord. 

Cometh ner," quoth he, " my lady prioresse ; 

And ye, sir clerk, lat be youre schamefastnesse, 840 

Ne studieth nat; ley hand to, every man." 

Anon to drawen every wight bigan, 
And schortly for to tellen as it was, 
Were it by aventure, or sort, or cas. 

The soth is this, the cut fil to the knight, 845 

Of which ful blithe and glad was every wight ; 
And telle he moste his tale as was resoun, 
By forward and by composicioun. 
As ye han herd ; what needeth wordes moo ? 
And whan this goode man seigh that it was so, 850 

As he that wys was and obedient 
To kepe his forward by his fre assent, 
He seyde : " Syn I schal bygynne the game. 
What, welcome be thou cut, a Goddes name : 
Now lat us ryde and herkneth what I seye." 855 

And with that word we riden forth oure weye ; 
And he bigan with right a merie chere 
His tale anon, and seide in this manere. 



i\07'ES TO CHAUCER'S PROLOGUE. 55 



NOTES TO CHAUCER'S PROLOGUE. 

{TJie ?Mvibers refer to lines.) 

The language of Chaucer exhibits the fusion of Teutonic and French 
elements. Dropping most of the Anglo-Saxon inflections, it passes from a 
synthetic to an analytic condition, in which the relations of words are ex- 
pressed, not by different terminations, but by separate words. It is essen- 
tially modern, but the following peculiarities are to be noted. The plural of 
nouns is usually formed by the ending es, which is pronounced as a distinct 
syllable; but in words of more than one syllable, the ending is s. Instead of 
es, we sometimes meet with is and us. Some nouns which originally ended 
in an have en or ;/ ,• as, <rssc/ien, ashes; dee/i, bees ; tye/i, eyes. The possessive 
or genitive case, singular and plural, is usually formed by adding es ; as, his 
/ordes werre (wars); foxes tales. But en is sometimes used in the plural; as, 
his eyen sight. The dative case singular ends in e ; as, /lo/le, bedde. The 
adjective is inflected. After demonstrative and possessive adjectives and the 
definite article, the adjective takes the ending e: as, ^\ie. yonge sonne; his 
halfe cours. But in adjectives of more than one syllable, this e is usually 
dropped. The plural of adjectives is formed by adding e ; as, smale fowles. 
But adjectives of more than one syllable, and all adjectives in the predicate, 
omit the e. The comparative is formed by the addition of er, though the 
Anglo-Saxon form ?v is found in a few words; as, derre, dearer; ferj-e., far- 
ther. The personal pronouns are as follows: — 

SINGULAR. 

A'oni. I, Ich, Ik, 

Poss. min (myn), mi (my), 

OhJ. me. 



N'om. thou (thow, 


tow). 






Poss. thin (thyn) 


, thi (thy). 






Oi>j. the, thee. 








Masc. 


Fem. 




Ne7it. 


N'ojn. he. 


she, sche. 




hit, it, yt, 


Poss. his. 


hire, hir, 




his. 


Obj. him. 


hire, hir. 


here. 


hit, it, yt, 



PLURAL. 


we, 




our, ^ 


oure, 


us. 




ye, 




your. 


, youre. 


yow, 


you. 


A 11 Genders. 


thei. 


they, 


here, 


, her, hir, 


hem. 





56 ENGLISH LITERATURE, 

The present indicative plural of verbs ends in en or e ; as, we loven or 
love. The infinitive ends in en or e; as, speken, speke, to speak. The 
present participle usually ends in yn^ or ynge. The past participle of strong 
verbs ends in en or t', and (as well as the past participle of weak verbs) is 
often preceded by the prefix y or z, answering to the Anglo-Saxon and 
modern German ge ; as, ironiie, yclept. The following negative forms de- 
serve attention: na^u, am not; nys, is not; nas, was not; nere, were not; 
iiath, hath not; nadde, had not; nylle, will not; nolde^ would not; nat^ tiot, 
noot, knows not. Adverbs are formed from adjectives by adding e ; as, brighte, 
brightly; deepe^ deeply. Other peculiarities will be explained in the notes. 

Versification. — The prevailing metre in the Canterbury Tales is iambic 
pentameter in rhyming couplets. Occasionally there are eleven syllables in a 
line, and sometimes only nine. Short, unemphatic syllables are often slurred 
over; as, 

" Sche gad | creth flour | es par | ty white | and rede." 

Words from the French usually retain their native pronunciation; that 
is, are accented on the last syllable. Final e is usually sounded as a distinct 
syllable except before //, a following vowel, in the personal pronouns oure^ 
yotire, hire, hej^e, and in many polysyllables. The ed of the past indicative 
and past participle, and the es of the plural and of the genitive, form separate 
syllables. 

In exemplification of the foregoing rules, the opening lines of the Pro- 
logue are here divided into their component iambics: — 

"Whan that | April | le, with | his schow j res swoote 
The drought ] of Marche | hath per | ced to | the roote, 
And ba | thed eve | ry veyne | in swich ] licour. 
Of which I vertue | engen | dred is ] the flour; 
Whan Ze | phirus 1 eek with | his swe | te breethe 
Enspi I red hath | in eve | ry holte | and heethe 
The ten [ dre crop | pes, and | the yon | ge sonne 
Hath in | the Ram | his hal | fe cours | i-ronne, 
And sma | le fow | les ma | ken me | lodie. 
That sle | pen al | the night | with o | pen eye. 
So pri I keth hem | nature | in here ] corages : — 
Thanne Ion | gen folk [ to gon | on pil | grimages, 
And pal | mers for | to see 1 ken straun | ge strondes. 
To fer I ne hal | wes, couthe | in son | dry londes; 
And spe | cially | from eve | ry schi | res ende 
Of En I gelond | to Gaunt | terbury | they wende, 
The ho I ly blis | ful mar | tir for | to seeke, 
That hem | hath holp | en whan ] that they | were seeke." 



NOTES rO CHAUCER'S PROLOGUE, 57 

1. Whan that = when. A frequent phrase in Chaucer. — Swootc = sweet. 
The final e is the sign of the plural. 

2. Marche. Final e is silent before words beginning with h or a vowel. 
Roote. The e denotes the dative. 

3. Szoich — such. A. S. szuilc, such; from swa,, so, and lie, like. 

4. VertHc = power. Retains French accent on the last syllable. 

5. Eek = also. — Siuete. The final e denotes the definite declension with 
the possessive ///j. — Breethc. Final e for the dative. So with Jiolte and heethe 
in the following line. Holt = wood, grove. 

7. Vo/t^^e Sonne. The final e of yonge for the definite declension with 
the. The sun is called young, because it has not long entered upon its annual 
course. 

8. Ra»i. The first constellation of the Zodiac, corresponding to the 
latter part of March and the first half of April. It is the part in April that 
the sun has run. — I-rotme, p. p. of ronne, to run. The prefixes i and y usu- 
ally denote the past participle, and correspond to the A. S. ge. Cf. modern 
German. 

9. Sviale. Final (' denoting the plural. — Maken is a plural form, as 
also slepen in the following line. 

11. PriketJi = inciteth, prompteth. — I/ein, here. See list of pronouns 
under Chaucer's "Diction." — Coragcs — hevixis, spirits. French courage, 
from Lat. cor, heart. 

12. To gon = to go. 

13. Palmers = persons bearing palm-branches in token of having been 
to the Holy Land. — Straunge strondes = strange strands or foreign shores. 

14. Feme halwes, kouthe = old, or distant saints known, etc. Kouthe, 
from the A. S. ctinnan, to know. Cf. uncouth. 

16. Wende = go. The past tense is tuente, English lueiit. 

17. The holy blisful martir, Thomas a Becket. Read a sketch of his 
life. 

18. Holpen, p. p. helpe)i, to help. 

19. Byfel^= it befell or chanced; an impers. verb. 

20. Tabard — a sleeveless jacket or coat, formerly worn by nobles in 
war. It was the sign of a well-known inn in Southwark, London. 

25. By aventure i-falle = by adventure, or chance fallen, etc. 
29. Esed atte beste = accommodated in the best manner. Atte, contrac- 
tion for the A. S. at thaui — at the. 
31. Everychon = tvexy oiiQ. 

34. Ther as I yow devyse = where I describe to you. 7Vier as = 
where. 

35. Xatheless = nevertheless. A. S. na the laes — not the less. 



58 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

36. Or that — ere that. Cr, from A. S. acr, before, soon. Pace = pass. 

37, Me thinketJi = it seems to me. Me is the dative after the impers. 
verb it thinketh. From the A. S. thyncan, to seem; quite distinct from thencait, 
to think. 

45. Chyvalrye— chivalry. Old French chevalcrie, from cheval, a horse; 
Latin, caballus. 

47. Werre = wars. 

48. Noinan ferre = no man farther. Eerre, comp. of fej-, far. 

49. Hethenesse = heathendom. Like many other knights of his age, he 
had served as a volunteer under foreign princes. 

51. Alisaiiudre = Alexandria. It was taken in 1365 by Pierre de ■ 
Lusignan, King of Cyprus. 

52. He hadde the bord bygoiuie. An obscure expression. Perhaps he 
had been placed at the head of the table (bord) by way of distinction; or 
bord m^y be the Low Ger. boort =^ joust, tournament. 

53. Aboven alle nacioiuis. He took precedence over the representatives 
of all other nations at the Prussian court. Priice = Prussia. It was not 
unusual for English knights to serve in Prussia, with the Knights of the 
Teutonic order, who were constantly warring with their heathen neighbors in 
Lettowe (Lithuania) and in Riice (Russia). 

54. Reysed = made an expedition. A. S. raesan, to rush, attack. Cf. 
Ger. reisen, to travel. 

56. Gernade = Granada. The city of Algezir M^as taken from the 
Moorish king of Granada in 1344. 

57. Behuarie and 7'ra/nassene (line 62) were Moorish kingdoms in 
Africa. 

58. Lieys, in Armenia, was taken from the Turks by Pierre de Lusignan 
about 1367, and Satalie (Attalia) by the same prince about 1352. 

59. Greete sea. Great sea is a name applied to that part of the Mediter- 
ranean lying between the Greek islands and the coast of Syria. See 
Numbers xxxiv. 6. 

60. A rive = arrival or disembarkation of troops; here a hostile landing 
probably. — Be == been. In the next line the form is beti, 

63. Lystes = lists, the ground enclosed for a tournament. 

64. like = same. A. S. j)'/<r, same. Cf. "of that ilk." 

65. Palatye = Palathia, in Anatolia or Asia Minor. 

67. Sovereyn prys = highest praise. 

68. Worthy = brave, bold. 

70. Vileinye — villany, foul language. 

71. A^o mailer ivig/if = no manner of wight or person. 

72. Perfight ~ perfect. 



NOTES TO CHAUCER'S PROLOGUE. 59 

74. Nc . . . nong/i/. A double negative form. Cf. French tic . . . /^as. 
Nought — A. S. )ia, no, not, and wiht, whit, thing. The adv. not is a fur- 
ther contraction. — Gay = lively, fast; or perhaps decked out in various 
trappings. 

75. Gepotcn = a short cassock or cloak. 

76. Bys7notered =^\)t%vcm\.\.(i(\. or soiled. — //<7Z'ifr^'<^(V/'// = habergeon, a 
coat of mail, composed of little iron rings, extending from the neck to the 
waist, or lower. 

77. Viage = voyage, journey, travels. He made the pilgrimage in the 
dress worn on his knightly expeditions. 

79. Sqiiyer = squire, an attendant upon a knight. Old French, escnyer, 
Low Lat., sczttarius, shield-bearer, Latin, SLiituiii, a shield. 
81. Lokkes crulle = locks curled. 

83. Evene lengthen moderate or usual height. 

84. Delyvere = active, quick. 

85. 6y/zVar///> = military expedition or service. Fr. chevancJiec (from 
cheval), a raid or expedition of cavalry. 

88. Lady grace = lady's grace. Lady for ladyc, genitive singular; the 
ending was in A. S. an. 

89. Evibro^vded = embroidered, in his dress. 
91. F/oytynge = fluting, playing the flute. 

95. Endite — relate. 

96. Pui-treye = draw, sketch. 

97. Nightertale — night-time. 

99. Servy sable = willing to be of service. 

100. Carf — carved, past of kerveti, to carve; A. S. ceorfan. 

101. Yeineii = yeoman. — No /noo = no more. 

102. /7im Itiste = it pleased him. — Ryde is inf. = to ride. 
104. Pocok ai'wes = arrows winged with peacock feathers. 

109. N'ot-heed ^= cro\)-^ed head; sometimes explained as nut-head, or 
head like a nut. 

111. Bracer = a covering for the arm to protect it from the bow-string. 

112. Bokeler = buckler, shield. 

115. Cristofre =^ z. brooch with the image of St. Christopher, who was 
regarded with special reverence by the middle and lower classes. — Schene — 
bright, beautiful; A. S. scyne, fair. Cf. Eng., sheen; Ger. schon. 

116. Bawdrik = baldric, girdle, belt. 

117. Forster = forester. Ger. Jorster. — Soth/y = truly, soothly. 
120. Seynt Loy = St. Louis; according to others, St. Eligius. 
124. Fetysly = prettily, cleverly. 

126. Frensch of Parys. The French of Paris, then as now, was the 



6o ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

standard. The French in Engla'nd was not pure, — Unknowe = unknown. 
The n of the past part, is frequently dropped. 

129. Sauce =: saucer. Forks and spoons had not yet come into use. 

131. A^o drope 7ie Jille = no drop fall. Double negative, as in French 
and Anglo-Saxon. 

132. Leste = pleasure, delight. 

134. 7^?r//«"«^ = small quantity. Literally, a fourth part. K.'^. feorth^ 
fourth, and diminutive suffix ing. 

136. Raughte = reached. Preterit of reche. 

137. 6'/i^r/j/ = surely. Cf. Ger. sicherlich. — Disport ^= %y^o\\., diver- 
sion. She was fond of gayety. 

139. Peynede hire = she took pains. — Cotmtrefete cheer e = imitate the 
manner. Formerly no bad association belonged to the word counterfeit. 

140. Estatlich-—%\.-3Xt\y, high-bred. 

141. Z)/^7/^ = worthy. French digne, Lat. dignus. 

147. Wastel breed ~c^\<.e bread, or bread made of the finest flour. 
Dogs were usually fed on coarse bread baked for the purpose. 

149. Men =mdQ{. pronoun one; sometimes written me. It has un- 
fortunately become obsolete. German man, French on. — Snierte = sms.xi\y. 

151. Wyi/ipel = ?i linen covering for the neck and shoulders. — I-pynched 
= plaited, or gathered into folds. 

152. T^r^f/yi- = slender, well-proportioned. 

156. Hardily —?i%%\xxQd\y, certainly. 

157. jF>/V5 = neat, pretty. Seel. 124. 

159. Ganded al with grene =^\v?c^v!\^ large green gauds or beads. The 
reference is to a rosary. See Webster. 

162. Amor vincit omnia = love conquers all things. 

164. C//<r7/'^/^j'«i? = chaplain or assistant. — Prestes thre. Priests were 
connected with nunneries for the purpose of saying mass. 

165. A fair for the maistrie = a fair one for obtaining the mastery. 

166. Oiit-rydere ^^ one who rides after hounds in hunting. 

170. Gynglen = jingling. Fashionable riders were accustomed to hang 
small bells on their bridles and harness. 

172. Ther as = where. — Selle — cell. Originally applied to the small 
chamber occupied by each monk, but afterwards also to a religious house or 
inferior monastery. 

173. Seynt Maur — seint Beneyt= ?>{. Maur, St. Benedict. The latter 
founded the order of Benedictines at the beginning of the sixth century. St. 
Maur was a disciple of St. Benedict. The Bendictine mode of life was 
originally severely ascetic. 

174. ■5^w^/(?/ ^/r<?)'/= somewhat strict. 



NOTES TO CHAUCER'S PROLOGUE. 6 1 

175. This il/ce=^ this same. A. S. yic, same. 

176. Spacer path, steps. Other readings are /race dixxd pace. 

177. A pulled he)i= a moulting or worthless hen, neither laying eggs 
nor fit for food. 

179. Reccheles = reckless, careless. A. S. reccan, to think. 

182. Tliilke= that, the like. A. S. thylc, that, the like. 

183. 5.fzV/^ = should say. Pret. of Subjunctive. 

184. What=^ why, wherefore. — Wood=^ mad, foolish. Cf. Ger. Wtdh, 
rage. 

186. S^vynke =^\.o toil, labor. 

187. ../i-.-^«j()';/ /{J'/ = As Augustine bids. St. Augustine of Canterbury 
urged a faithful adherence to the monastic vows upon his clergy. 

188. Let Augustine, or Austin, have his toil kept for himself. 

189. Pricasoiir =^\i-^xA rider, one who spurs his horse. — Aright = oxi 
right, indeed. 

191. Prikyiig—\\iX\\-\g. Cf. Spenser's — 

" A gentle knight was pricking on the plaine." 

192. Lus/= pleasure. Other forms are leste., list. 

193. Pui-Jiled atte honde — emhxo\dtxe(\ 2i\. the hand or cuff. Yx. pour- 
filer, to embroider. Atte, see 1. 29. 

194. Grys— fur of the Siberian squirrel. French ^r/^, gray. 

200. In good poyut =^ French en l>on poi)it, rotundity of figure. 

201 . Steepe = bright. 

202. Steniede as a forneys of a leed = shone as a furnace of a caldron 
{leed). 

203. Bootes souple. High boots of soft leather were worn, fitting closely 
to the leg. 

205. For-pyned=^ wasted away. For is intensive. Cf. Eng. pine. 

208. Frere^^ friar. — \Vantoun= playful, sportive; literally, untrained, 
uneducated. 

209. Lyniytoiir = a begging friar to whom a certain district or limit was 
assigned. 

210. The ordres fonre = the four orders of mendicant friars. These were 
the Dominicans or Black friars, the Franciscans or Gray friars, the Carmelites 
or White friars, and the Austin friars. — Can = knows. Present tense of 
A. S. cunnan, to know. 

211. Daliannce and fair langage = gossip and flattery. 
214. Post ^ pillar or support. 

220. Licentiate one who has license from the Pope to grant absolution 
in all cases. Curates were required to refer certain cases to the bishop. 



62 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

224. Ther as he wiste haii == where he knew he would have. //.'?■//, inf. 
contracted from haven. — Pitaunce= meal of victuals, or small allowance of 
anything, 

226. I-schrive=^ confessed. The Ji of the past part, is dropped. 

233. His ty pet was ay farsed= His hood was always stuffed. Says an 
old writer: "When the order degenerated, the friar combined with the 
spiritual functions the occupation of pedler, huckster, mountebank, and 
quack doctor." 

236. Rote = a kind of harp. 

237. Yeddynges = ballads or romantic tales. 

237. Bar utterly the prys =^ took unquestionably the prize. 

238. Flour-de-lys=\\\y. 'Now wntten^eur-dedis. • 

241. Tappestere = bar-maid. The corresponding masculine was tapper. 
Ster was originally the feminine suffix of agency. Cf. spinster. 

242. Bet = better. — Lazer = leper, from Lazarus in the parable. 

243. Swich = such. See note 1. 3. 
245 . Sike = sick . 

247. Poraille = poor people, rabble. 

253. A'^ogt 00 schoo ^^ not one shoe. 

254. In principio. At each house the lyuiytoiir began his speech, " /« 
principio erat verbuni " = in the beginning was the Word. 

255. Ferthing. See note 1. 134. 

256. Pnrchas =^ proceeds of his begging. — Rente =^ regular income. 

258. Love-dayes = days fixed to settle difficulties by arbitration. 

259. For thcr^:^ further. 

260. Cope = cloak or vestment of a priest. Cf. Eng. cape--. Sejny-cope 
(1. 262) = a short cape or cloak. 

263. Beite out of the press— bell from the mould. 

264. Lipsede = lisped. 

270. Forked herd. This was the fashion among franklins and burghers. 
273. elapsed ^^ clasped. 

275. Sotvnyjige — thencres = sounding the increase. 

276. For eny thinge = at all hazards. 

277. Middelburgh and Orewelle. Middleburgh is still a port of the 
island of Walcheren in the Netherlands. Orewelle is now the port of 
Harwich. 

278. Scheeldes = French crowns (eons) from the figure of a shield on 
one side. 

279. His wit bisette= employed his wit or knowledge. 

281. Governaunce = management. 

282. Chevysaunce ^^ agreement for borrowing money. 



AZOTES TO CHAUCER'S PROLOGUE. 63 

284. Xo/ — Know not. Xe and 7vo/. 

285. Clc'i-k = an ecclesiastic or man of learning; here a university stu- 
dent. — Oxenford = 0\\or^; not derived from the A. S. oxiia, oxen, but 
from a Celtic word meaning 7vater. 

289. Holwe = hollow. 

290. Ovc7-este cojirtepy = uppermost short cloak. 

292. Office ^^ secular calling, in contrast with benefice^ an ecclesiastical 
living. 

293. Lcverc = preferable, ////// is dat. after le^'cre. Cf. Ger. licbcr. 

295. Aristotle was a celebrated Greek philosopher. He was the founder 
of the Peripatetic school of philosophy, and the tutor of Alexander the Great. 
Born 384 B.C. 

296. Fitliele = fiddle. — Sauitrie = psaltery, a kind of harp. 
299. Hente = get, take. 

302. Scoleye =^\.o attend school, to study. Poor students were accus- 
tomed to beg for their support at the universities. 

303. 0^;v = care. 

306. Heye sentence =high meaning or lofty sentiment, 

309. Sergeant of tJie Ai'Ti't' = a lawyer of the highest rank. The Lat. 
phrase is serviens od legem. — W^ar = wary. 

310. Atte parvys = ■A.\. the porch, of St. Paul's, where lawyers were ac- 
customed to meet for consultation. 

312. Ofgret reverence =^ worthy of great respect or reverence. 

318. Purchasour == prosecutor. Yxtnch ponrc/ursser, to hunt after. 

319. Al 7CU7S fee simple to /ii//i. This seems to mean that all cases were 
clear to him. See etymology oi fee in Webster. 

320. His prosecution might not be tainted i^oifecle') or contaminated 
with any illegality. 

323. Cans and domes = cases and dooms, or precedents and decisions, 

325. Make a thing = make or draw up a contract. 

326. Pynche at = find fault with. 

328. Medle coote = coat of mixed stuff or color. 

329. Seynt of silk = girdle of silk. Cf. Eng. cincture. 

332. Dayesye = daisy; literally, day'' s eye. Chaucer's favorite flower. 

334. By the ;//(V-7i'(? = early in the morning. — Sop in 7i:'^';/ = bread 
dipped in wine; according to Bacon, more intoxicating than wine itself. 

335. /F<?;/^ = pleasure, desire. Cf. Ger. /'Fi?//;/^, bliss. 

336. Epicurus, a famous Greek philosopher, who assumed pleasure to be 
the highest good. 

337. Pleyn delyt — full delight or perfect physical enjoyment. 

340. Seynt yiilian = The patron saint of travellers and hospitality. 



64 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

341. Abvay after ooti = always the same. 

342. Envyned = provided with wine. 

345. Hii sfiewede = it snowed or abounded. 

348. Mete and soper = food and drink. See etymology of supper in 
Webster. 

349. I\Iewe = cage or coop. 

350. Brein = bream. — Litce = pike. — Stewe = fish-pond. 

351. Woo -was /lis cook =^ woe was it to his cook. — Bui-if= unless, if 
not. 

353. Table dormant. Previous to the fourteenth century the tables were 
rough boards laid on trestles; tables dorinajif, or with fixed legs, were then 
introduced, and standing in the hall were looked upon as evidences of hos- 
pitality. 

355. Se s si on n s ^= The conniy cowxis. 

336. Knight of the scliire = representative in Parliament. 

357. Aulas = knife or dagger. — Gipser = pouch. 

359. Schirreve = shire reeve, sheriff. Reeve, A. S. gerefa, = officer, 
governor. — Cotcntonr =^ ^xxdaiox of accounts, or county treasurer. Cf. Fr, 
compter, to count. 

360. Vavasour ^^ one next in dignity to a baron; landholder of the 
middle class. 

361. Haberdasshere = dealer in " notions " — ribbons, pins, etc. 

362. Webbe = weaver. Cf. Ger. IVeber. — Tapicer = worker in tapestry. 

363. Lyvere = livery; here the uniform of the trade guild to which they 
belonged. 

365. Api/eed = cleaned, kept neat. 

366. I-chaped= having plates of metal at the point of the sheath or 
scabbard. 

368. />£■/ = part, portion. A. S. c/aei, a portion. Cf. Eng. do/e and 
Ger. Theil 

369. Bnrgeys ^= burgess; here a person of the middle class. 

370. 6'^/(/i?//rt'//(?= guild-hall. — Deys = dais; here the raised platform 
at the upper end of the hall, on which were seats for persons of distinction. 

371. TViat he can = that he knows. 

372. Schaply = fit. From to shape, hence adapted. 

373. C<^i'/e7 = property. Cf. Eng. chattels and cattle. — Rente =^xevi\., 
revenue, income. Cf. Eng. render. 

377. Vigilies = vigils, or eves of festival days, when the people were 
accustomed to meet at the church for merrymaking. They wore their best 
clothes, and the wealthier women had their mantles, which were brought for 
show as well as protection, carried by servants. 



NOTES TO CHAUCER'S PROLOGUE. 65 

378. Riallyche = royally. 

379. For the nones = for the nonce. The older spelling \% for then ones 
= for the once, for the occasion. The //, which is the sign of the dat. (A. 
S. tham, than), is carried over to the following word. 

380. Mary hones = marrow bones. 

381 . Pondre-marchatint tart = a tart or acid flavoring powder. — Galyn- 
gale — the root of an aromatic species of sedge found in the south of England. 

382. Londo)i ale was held in high esteem at that time. 

384. i\Iort)-eux = a kind of soup, of which the principal ingredients 
were fowl, fresh pork, bread-crumbs, eggs, and saffron; so called from being 
brayed in a mortar. 

386. Jl/or ma t = cancer. French mort- mat. 

387. Blank manger = blanc-mange, white food, composed of minced 
chicken, eggs, flour, sugar, and milk. This dish he could make with the 
best of his fellow-cooks. 

T^Z^. Wonyngfer by weste = dwelling far in the west. Cf. Ger. 7i>ohnen, 
to dwell. 

389. De'-temo2(th = Dartmouth, on the south-west coast of England. 

390. Rouucy =^ a common hack-horse. — As he cou/he=aii well as he 
could. As a seaman, he was not accustomed to riding. 

391. Go7VHe of faldyng = gown or robe of coarse cloth. 

392. Laas =belt, strap. Cf. Eng. lace. 

397. Btirdeiix = Bordeaux, a city of south-west France. — Chapman =■ 
merchant or supercargo. A. S. wap, trade, and majin, man. 
401. Craft = calling. 

403. //e r he rgh = havhor, place of shelter. Cf. Eng. harbor. — Mone 
= moon, as influencing the tides. — Lodenuniage = pilotage. Cf. Eng. lode^ 
lodestar, lodestone. 

404. Hulle = Hull, a seaport on the north-east coast of England. — 
Cartage = Cartagena, a city on the south-east coast of Spain. 

408. Gootland = Gothland, an island in the Baltic belonging to Sweden. 
— Fyjiystere = Finisterre, a cape on the north-west coast of Spain. 

409. Cryk = creek, harbor. 

414. Astronomye = astrology, the art of judging of the influence of the 
stars on the human body, etc. The medical science of the Middle Ages paid 
attention to astrological and superstitious observances. 

415. A',:'/^' = watched. 

416. //c'/^-'Vi^ = astrological hours. " He carefully watched for a favor- 
able star in the ascendant." 

417. Fortunen^^ to make fortunate. The practice here referred to is 
spoken of more fully in Chaucer's House of Fame, 11. 169-180 : — 



66 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

" Ther saugh I pleyen jugelours 

And clerkes cek, which conne wel 
Alle this magike nature), 
That craftely doon her ententes 
To maken in certeyn ascendentes 
Ymages, lo ! thrugh which magike 
To make a man ben hool or syke." 

420. The four humors of the body, to which all diseases were referred. 

424. Boo^e = remedy. 

426. Dragges and his letuaries = drugs and his electuaries. 

429. Esculapius was the god of medicine among the Greeks. 

430-434. The writers here mentioned were the leading medical author- 
ities of the Middle Ages. Deyscorides, or Diosco7'ides, a physician in Cilicia 
of the first century. Rufus, a Greek physician of Ephesus of the time of 
Trajan. Ypocras, or Hippocrates, a Greek physician of the fourth century, 
called the father of medicine. Haly, an Arabian physician of the eleventh 
century. Galen, scarcely second in rank to Hippocrates, a Greek physician 
of the second century. Serapyon, an Arabian physician of the eleventh cen- 
tury. Rhasis was a Spanish Arab of the ninth century. Avycen, an Arabian 
physician of the eleventh century. Averrois, or Aver roes, an Arabian scholar 
of the twelfth century. Dainascien, or Damascenus^ an Arabian physician of 
the ninth century. Constantyn, or Constantius Afer, a physician of Carthage, 
and one of the founders of the University of Salerno. Bernard, a professor 
of medicine at Montpellier in France, and contemporary of Chaucer. Gatesden, 
ox John of Gaddesd^n, physician to Edward III., the first Englishman to hold 
the position of royal physician. Gilbertyn, supposed to be the celebrated 
Gilbertus Anglicus. 

439. Sangwin and in pers = a cloth of blood-red and sky-blue {pers). 

440. Taffata = thin silk. — Sendal = a rich, thin silk, highly esteemed 
for lining. 

441. Esy of dispense = moderate in his expenditures. 

442. Wan in pestilence = won in pestilence; a reference to the great 
pestilence of 1348 and 1349. 

445. Of by side Bathe = from near Bath. 

446. Sof/idel = somewhat. — Skathc = misfortune, loss. A. S. sceathan, 
to harm, injure. Cf. Eng., scathe, and Ger. schaden. 

447. Haunt = skill, practice. 

448. Ypres and Ghent (Gaunt) were the greatest cloth-markets on the 
continent. 

450. To the offryng. An allusion to Relic Sunday, when the people 
went to the altar to kiss the relics. 



NOTES TO CHAUCER'S PROLOGUE. 6/ 

453. Kever chefs = kerchief, a square piece of cloth used to cover the 
head. French coiivre-chef, the latter coming from Lat. caput. 

457. Moyste = soft, supple. 

460. Marriages were celebrated at the door of the church. 

462. .4s noiithe = at present. A'outhe = now + //ic = now 4- then, just 
now, at present. 

465. Boloyne = Bologna, where was preserved an image of the Virgin 
Mary. 

466. In Galicia at the shrine of St. James. It was believed that the 
body of the apostle had been conveyed thither. — Coloync = Cologne, where 
the bones of the three wise men or kings of the East, who came to see the 
infant Jesus, are said to be preserved. 

467. Cozvde = knew. 

468. Gat-tothed. This word is variously explained. Equivalent, perhaps, 
io gap-toothed, having the teeth some distance apart. 

470. Y-wy>npIed = having a wimple or covering for the neck. See note 
on 1. 151. 

472. Foot-mantel — ?L riding-skirt probably. 

473. Spores = spurs. 

474. Carpe = to jest, chaff. It now means to find fault with. 
476. l^he olde daiince = the old game, or customs. 

478. Persoun of a toun = a parish priest or parson. Lat. persona. 
Blackstone says: " A parson, persona ecclesicr, is one that hath full possession 
of all the rights of a parochial church. He is called parson, persona, because 
by his person the church, which is an invisible body, is represented." Skeat 
justly observes that " this reason may well be doubted, but without affecting 
the etymology." 

482. Parischens = parishioners. 

485. Sithes = times. A. S. sith, time. Cf. Ger., Zeit. 

486. Loth = o^\o\\%, hateful. It was odious to him to excommunicate 
those who failed to pay tithes due him. 

489. Offrynge = voluntary contributions of his parishioners. — Substance 
= income of his benefice or the property he had acquired. 

492. A> lafte not = did not cease. 

493. Afeschief= misfortune. 

494. Moche and lite — great and small. 

502. Lewed — \\\\\(f\\\-\&^, ignorant. 

503. Kepe = heed. 

507. To hyre = He did not let out his parish to a strange curate, while 
he ran to London to seek a chantry at St. Paul's — a more congenial and 
lucrative employment. The chantries were endowments for singing masses 
for souls. 



68 ENGLISH LITER A TURE. 

511. To hen ^vithholdc = to be maintained. 

516. Nought despitous = not pitiless, cruel. 

517. Datmgeroiis 7ie digne = domineering nor haughty. 

523. Snybbe = snub, reprove. — For the nones. See note 1. 379. 

525. VVaytede after = sought or looked for. 

526. ^/J'zV^^/ = over-scrupulous. 

530. I-lad = drawn out, carried. — Fother = load, cart-load. 

531. 6"7ey'«/v;'<? = laborer. 

534. Though him gaviede or sinerte = though it pleased or pained him. 
536. Dyke and delve = to ditch and dig. 

541. Tabard. See note 1. 20. — Mere = mare. People of quality would 
not ride upon a mare. 

542. Reeve = steward, bailiff, officer. — Mellere == miller. 

543. Soinpjiour — summoner, in ecclesiastical courts. — Pardoner = 
seller of pardons or indulgences. 

544. Maiineiple = an officer who purchased provisions for a college, etc. 
Lat. f/ia)ueps, purchaser, contractor. 

545. C<?;-/ = churl, hardy fellow. A.S. ceorl, country-man, churl. 

547. That proved he well, for everywhere he came. — Overal ther — 
everywhere, wherever. Cf. Ger. ilberall, everywhere. 

548. Rain. A ram was the usual prize at wrestling matches. 

549. Knarre = knot. He was a thick-set, muscular fellow. 

550. Nolde = ne + ivolde = would not. — Heve of harre = heave, or 
lift, off its hinges. 

551. Rennyng ^=xwwxi\n^. 

554. Upon the cop right = right upon the top. Cf. Eng. coping. 

556. Berstles — bristles. A. S. byrst, a bristle, by a common transposi- 
tion of the consonants. Cf. Ger. bitrste, brush. 

557. N'ose-thurles = nostrils. A. S. thyrel, a hole. 

560. Janglere = great talker, babbler. — Golyardeys = buffoon at rich 
men's tables; a teller of ribald stories. 

563. Thonibe of gold refers to the miller's skill in testing the quality 
of meal or flour by rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. — Parde = 
par DieTi, a common oath. 

568. Achatours = purchasers, caterers. Fr. acketer, to buy. 

570. By taille = by tally; i.e., on credit. Fr. tailler, to cut, referring 
to the score cut on wood. 

571. Algate =^ always. — Waytede so in his achate = watched so in his 
purchase, 

572. Ay biforn = always before or ahead of others. 
574. Pace = pass, surpass. 



NOTES TO CHAUCER'S PROLOGUE. 69 

581. Propre good = own property. 

582. But-if he ivere wood = unless he were mad. 

583. .Is hym list desire = as it pleases him to desire. 

586. Setie here aller cappe = set all their caps — an expression meaning 

to outtilit, overreach. 

590. His head was docked, or closely cut in front like a priest. 

594. Anditour = accountant. 

597. A^eet = cattle. Cf . neat, cattle. 

598. Stoor = stock, store. 

603. //erde = herdsman. — Hyne ^= hind, servant, farm-laborer. 

604. Covyne = deceit. 

605. Adrad = afraid. — The dethe = the pestilence or plague. 

606. U'oiiyng = dwelling. Cf. Ger. Wohmuig, dwelling. 
613. Mester =\.x2idiQ. French w^VzVr. 

615. 6"/^/ = stallion. 

616. Pofuely gray = dappled gray. 

617. Ofpers. See note on 1. 439. 

621. Tiikked = clothed in the long dress of a friar. 

622. Hyndreste of the route = hindmost of the company. 

623. Sompnour. See note 1. 543. 

625. Sawcejlein = having a red, pimpled face. — A'ar^ve = narrow. 

627. Skalled = having the scall or scab. — Piled herd = thin beard, or 
bare in patches. 

629. Litarge = litharge. 

630. Boras = borax. — Certice = white lead. 
632. Whelkes = blotches, pimples. 

636. Wood. See note 1. 184. 

643. Can clepen Watte — can call Wat, or Walter. 

644. Grope = try, test; literally, to feel with the hands. 

646. Qiiestio quid jtiris = The question is, what is the law in the case. 

652. Pulle a fyiuh was a common expression for cheating a novice. 

653. Owher = anywhere. 

656. Biit-if. See note 11. 351 and 582. 

660. Each guilty man ought to be afraid of excommunication {cttrsyng'). 

661. Assoillyng= absolution. O. Fr. assoiller, Lat. absolvere. 

662. War him = wzxxi him. — Signijicavit = 2l writ of excommuni- 
cation, which usually began, " Significavit nobis venerabilis frater," etc. 

663. /;/ dannger ^^ in his power or jurisdiction. — At his aivne gise •= 
after his own fashion {gise). 

664. Gtirles = young people of both sexes. 

665. A I here reed = wholly their adviser. 



JO ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

667. Ale-stake = sign-post in front of an ale-house. It was usual to 
attach an ivy bush to an ale-stake. 
673. Burdomi = bass. 

676. Strike ofjlex = hank of flax. 

677. Unces = small, separate portions. 

679. By culpons on and oon — by shreds or strands one by one. 

681. Trussed = packed up. 

682. Him thought = it seemed to him. See note 1. 37. — The tiezue get 
= the new fashion. 

683. Sauf his cappe^ except his cap. 

685. Vernicle = a miniature copy of the picture of Christ, which is said 
to have been miraculously imprinted on a handkerchief preserved in St. 
Peter's at Rome. 

691. Geldyng^= eunuch. 

694. Male = bag, valise. — Pihvebeer = pillow-case. 

695. Oure lady veyl =■ our lady's veil. See note 1. 88. 

696. Gobet = piece. 

698. Hente^ took, seized. 

699. Latoiin = a kind of brass or tinned iron. 

700. Pigges bones, which he pretended were the bones of some saint. 
702. Poiire persoun — poor parson. 

705. Japes — tricks, impostures. 

712. Affyle = file, polish. 

726. That you do not ascribe (^rette) it to my ill-breeding {vileinye). 

728. Here cheer e = their appearance. 

741. Plato, a famous Greek philosopher, born about 420 B.C. 

742. Cosyn — kindred or in keeping with. The language should be in 
keeping with the thing described. 

744. Al = although. Cf. Eng. albeit. 

750. JP'^el to drynke us teste — it pleased us well to drink. 

753. Eygeii stepe. See note 1. 201. 

754. Chepe = Cheapside, a leading street in London, on which the 
wealthiest burgesses or citizens lived. 

758. Play en = to make sport. 

761. Lordynges = sirs, gentlemen. Dim. of lord. 

765. Herbergh — inn. See note 1. 403. 

766. Don yo7u 7?iirthe =^ cause you mirth. Cf. Eng. " I do yon to wif'' 
= I cause you to know. 

770. Quyte you youre 7/ieede^= grant you your reward. 
772. Schapen yow /c /(^z/^;/ = prepare yourselves, or get ready, to tell 
tales {taleji'). 



iXOTES TO CHAUCER'S PROLOGUE. 7 1 

782. But ye be nierye^=^ if ye be not merry. 

784. 6'^i7/t'= seek. Cf. Ger. siichen. 

785. To make it ^oys = to make it a matter of serious deliberation. 

786. A%'ys— advice, consideration. Cf. Fr. avis. 
']^']. Veriiite^= verdict, judgment. 

791. 7^0 schorte — io ^hoxien. 

798. Of best sentence and znost solas = the most instructive and the 
most amusing. 

799. At ottre alther cost =^ at the cost of us all. 
810. Oiire othes swore =^ we swore our oaths. 
816. Devys^^ decision, direction. 

819. /^'/ = fetched. A. S.fetian, to fetch. 

822. A nioru'c = on the morrow, the i8th of April. 

823. Otir alther cok = cock or leader for us all. 

825. A litel viore than pa as =^ a little faster than a pace or walk. 

826. The watering of St. Thomas was at the second mile-stone on the 
old road to Canterbury. 

827. Bigan — areste— halted. Bigan is sometimes used as an auxiliary 
-did. 

829. Forward^ promise, covenant. A. S. foreword, covenant, agree- 
ment. 

83 1 . Lat se = let us see. 

835. Ferrer tivynne^ farther depart or travel. 

838. Acord =^ decision. 

840. Lat be youre schainfastnesse =^ let be your modesty. See etymology 
of shamefaced in Webster or Skeat, 

844. Aventure, or sort, or cas = by chance, or luck, or accident. 

845. Soth= truth. Cf. Eng. iii sooth. 

847. As 7aas resoitn = as was reasonable. 

848. Forward r^ see note 1. 829. Composicioiin =- agreement. 
850. Seigh=^%'\\\. 

854. A Goddes name = in God's name. 

857. Right a vierie chere = a right merry countenance. 



FIRST CREATIVE PERIOD. 



REPRESENTATIVE WRITERS. 

SPENSER, BACON, SHAKESPEARE. 

OTHER PROMINENT WRITERS. 

Poets. — Daniel, Drayton, Donne. 
Prose IVriiers. — Ascham, Lyly, Sidney, Hooker, Raleigh. 
Dramatists. — Marlowe, Green, Jonson, Beaumont, Fletcher. 



II. 

FIRST CREATIVE PERIOD. 

1558-1625. 

General Survey. — This period, which includes the 
reigns of EUzabeth and James I., is one of great interest. 
In the long course of English literature there is no other 
period that deserves more careful attention. It was the 
natural outcome of forces that had been accumulating for 
a hundred years. It is sometimes called the Elizabethan 
era, because the successful reign of that queen supplied 
the opportunity for a splendid manifestation of literary 
genius. Peace, prosperity, and general intelligence are 
the necessary conditions for the creation of a great na- 
tional literature — a truth that finds abundant exemplifi- 
cation in the age of Pericles in Athens, of Augustus in 
Rome, and of Louis XIV. in France. While these condi- 
tions do not explain genius, which must be referred to the 
immediate agency of the Creator, they make it possible 
for genius to realize its best capabilities. The reign of 
Elizabeth, with its increase of intelligence and national 
power, furnished the occasion and the stimulus under 
which Spenser, Shakespeare, and Bacon produced their 
immortal works. At one great bound English literature 
reached an excellence that for variety of interest and 
weight of thought has scarcely been surpassed. 

The century and a half lying between the death of 

75 



j6 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Chaucer and the accession of Elizabeth may be considered 
as a retrogressive era. The potential forces that called 
the father of English poetry into being seemed to sub- 
side ; and not a single writer in either prose or poetry 
attained to the first or even the second rank. English lit- 
erature, as a whole, did not reach respectable mediocrity. 
The only names that need to be mentioned here are 
Caxton, who introduced printing into England, and Sir 
Thomas More, a brilliant courtier under Henry VIII., 
whose '' Utopia " ^ — the land of Nowhere — has the rare 
distinction of having contributed a new word to our lan- 
guage. The cause of this barrenness is to be found partly 
in the repression of free inquiry by the church and Parlia- 
ment, partly in the social disorder connected with the 
Wars of the Roses, and partly in the varied and important 
interests that engaged general attention. 

The century preceding the accession of Elizabeth was 
an era of awakened mind and intellectual acquisition. 
The revival of learning was an event of vast importance, 
not only in the intellectual life of England, but also of all 
Europe. It had its central point in the capture of Con- 
stantinople by the Turks in 1453, which caused many 
Greek scholars to seek refuge in Italy. As ancient learn- 
ing had already begun to receive attention there, these 
scholarly fugitives were warmly welcomed. Noble and 
wealthy patronage was not wanting ; and soon the classic 
literature of Greece and Rome was studied with almost 
incredible enthusiasm. The Popes received the new 
learning under their protection ; libraries were founded, 
manuscripts collected, and academies established. 

Eager scholars from England, France, and Germany sat 
at the feet of Italian masters, in order afterward to bear 



FIRST CREATIVE PERIOD. 'J J 

beyond the Alps the precious seed of the new culture. Its 
beneficent effects soon became apparent. Greek was intro- 
duced into the great universities of England. Erasmus, 
the most brilliant scholar of his time, taught at Oxford. 
It became the fashion to study the ancient classics ; and 
Elizabeth, Jane Grey, and other noble ladies are said to 
have been conversant with Plato, Xenophon, and Cicero 
in the original. The taste, the eloquence, the refined lit- 
erary culture, of Athens and pagan Rome were restored to 
the world ; and " gradually, by an insensible change, men 
were raised to the level of the great and healthy minds 
which had freely handled ideas of all kinds fifteen centuries 
before." ^ 

The remarkable inventions and discoveries of the fif- 
teenth century contributed, in a noteworthy degree, to 
awaken intellect, and lift men to a higher plane of knowl- 
edge. The printing-press was invented about the middle 
of the century, and in less than a decade it was brought 
to such perfection that the whole Bible appeared in type 
in 1456. It became a powerful aid in the revival of learn- 
ing. It at once supplanted the tedious and costly process 
of copying books by hand, and brought the repositories of 
learning within reach of the common people. Gunpow- 
der, which had been invented the previous century, came 
into common use, and wrought a salutary change in the 
organization of society. It destroyed the military pres- 
tige of the knightly order, brought the lower classes into 
greater prominence, and contributed to the abolition of 
serfdom. The mariner's compass greatly furthered navi- 
gation. Instead of creeping along the shores of the Medi- 
terranean or the Atlantic, seamen boldly ventured upon 

^ Taine. English Literature, Vol. I. 



y8 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

unknown waters. In 1492 Columbus discovered America; 
and six years later Vasca da Gama, rounding the Cape of 
Good Hope, sailed across the Indian Ocean to Calcutta. 
Voyages of discovery followed in rapid succession, new 
continents were added to the map, and the general store 
of knowledge was greatly increased. 

The greatest event in history since the advent of 
Christ is the Reformation of the sixteenth century. It 
was essentially a religious movement which sought to cor- 
rect the errors in doctrine and practice that had crept into 
the church and long given rise to deep dissatisfaction. In 
connection with the co-operating influences spoken of in 
the preceding paragraphs, the Reformation began a new 
stage in human progress, marking the close of the Middle 
Ages and the dawn of the modern era. There is scarcely 
an important interest that it did not touch. It secured 
greater purity and spirituality in religion, contributed 
much to the elevation of the laity and the advancement of 
woman, confirmed the separation of the secular and the 
ecclesiastical power, established the right of liberty of 
conscience, gave an extraordinary impulse to literature and 
science, and, in a word, promoted all that distinguishes 
and ennobles our modern civilization. 

When the reformatory movement, which began with 
Martin Luther in Germany in i 5 1 7, extended to England, 
it found a receptive soil. Traditions of Wycliffe still sur- 
vived ; the new learning was friendly to reform ; and men 
of high civil and ecclesiastical rank had inveighed against 
existing abuses. Though Henry VIII. at first remained 
faithful to the Roman Catholic Church, and even wrote 
a book against the German reformer, he afterwards, for 
personal and selfish reasons, withdrew his support, and 



FIRST CREATIVE PERIOD. 79 

encouraged the reformatory work of his ministers and of 
ParHament. In 1534 the Act of Supremacy was passed, 
by which the king was made the supreme head of the 
Church of England, and empowered to '* repress and amend 
all such errors and heresies as, by any manner of spiritual 
jurisdiction, might and ought to be lawfully reformed." 

Without attempting to trace the general effects of the 
Reformation in England — a factor that enters with a 
moulding influence into all the subsequent history of the 
country — some of its immediate results upon English lit- 
erature are briefly indicated. In 1526 Tyndale published 
his translation of the New Testament, which was followed 
soon afterwards by other portions of the Bible. Nearly 
every year, for half a century, saw a new edition issue 
from the press. Tyndale's translation was made with 
great ability, and served as the basis of subsequent ver- 
sions until, in 161 i. King James's version, embodying all 
the excellences of previous efforts, gained general accept- 
ance. 

The Scriptures in English were seized upon with great 
avidity by the common people. The results were far- 
reaching and salutary. The study of the Bible stimulated 
mental activity ; its precepts ennobled character and 
governed conduct ; its language improved the common 
speech ; and its treasures of history and poetry added to 
the popular intelligence. It gave an impulse to general 
education ; and it became at once, what it has since re- 
mained, the occasion of high scholarship and of a consider- 
able body of literature. Latimer, whose vigorous sermons 
advanced the cause of the Reformation in different parts 
of England, is a type of the unbroken line of able preach- 
ers whose influence since upon the social, moral, and 



8o ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

intellectual life of the English people cannot be esti- 
mated. Religious services were conducted in English; 
and in 1549 the "Book of Common Prayer," which has 
been absorbed into the life of succeeding generations, was 
published, and its use, to the exclusion of ah other forms, 
prescribed by law. 

When Elizabeth ascended the throne in 1558, the 
fortunes of England were at a low ebb. The people were 
exasperated by Mary's misgovernment and persecution, 
and the bitter animosity between Protestants and Roman- 
ists was apparently beyond reconciliation. Humiliated by 
defeat in France, the country was threatened with in- 
vasion. There was neither army nor navy. " If God 
start not forth to the helm," wrote the Council in an 
appeal to the country, " we be at the point of greatest 
misery that can happen to any people, which is to become 
thrall to a foreign nation." By the marriage of Mary, 
Queen of Scots, to the dauphin of France, Scotland 
became a new pienace. These were some of the difficul- 
ties Elizabeth encountered on assuming the sovereignty. 
In dealing with them she showed extraordinary courage 
and wisdom ; and in a long reign of forty-five years, she 
raised England to the front rank among European nations, 
and awakened in the English people an aggressive and 
dauntless spirit. 

As a woman, the character of Elizabeth is far from 
admirable. She was vain, coarse, haughty, vindictive, pro- 
fane, mendacious. But as a queen, she in large measure 
justified the esteem in which she has been generally held. 
She was earnest, prudent, far-seeing, wise, and, above 
all, unselfishly devoted to the interests of her realm. 
She surrounded herself with able counsellors ; and, as a 



FIRST CREATIVE PERIOD. 8 1 

rule, her administration was characterized by a spirit of 
moderation. She extinguished the fires of persecution 
that had been lighted under Mary ; and, though exacting 
outward conformity to the established religion, she made 
no inquisition into the private opinions of her people. 

England gradually became Protestant in spirit, and 
the head of the Protestant movement in Europe. The 
successive dangers arising from papal conspiracies were 
happily averted. The papal bull of excommunication, 
which absolved the English people from their allegiance 
to the queen, came to nothing ; the Jesuit emissaries 
failed in their attemjot to incite a revolt ; and finally the 
combined efforts of the Papacy and of Spain to subdue 
England and re-establish Romanism by force were frus- 
trated by the destruction of the Armada. With these 
triumphs over foes at home and abroad, England acquired 
a new self-respect and confidence, and entered upon her 
career of maritime and commercial pre-eminence. 

In spite of the difficulties and dangers belonging to 
the earlier years of Elizabeth's reign, the interests of the 
people were wisely cared for. When coming into conflict 
with Parliament, the queen gracefully surrendered her 
despotic tendencies. She abolished monopolies, which had 
abused their privileges and become oppressive. Salutary 
laws were passed for the employment of the mendicant 
classes, which the cruel policy of preceding reigns had 
left as a residuum of discontent and menace to the 
country. 

The condition of the middle class was greatly im- 
proved. Better methods of tilling the soil gave a new 
impetus to agriculture. The growth of manufactures 
was rapid. Instead of sending her fleeces to Holland, 



82 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

England developed every department of woollen manu- 
facture. The mineral products of the country — iron, 
coal, tin — were increased. With the wars in the Neth- 
erlands, which destroyed for a time the trade of Antwerp 
and Bruges, London became the commercial centre of 
Europe. At her wharves were found the gold and sugar 
of the New World, the cotton of India, and the silk of the 
East. English vessels made their way everywhere — 
catching cod at Newfoundland, seeking new trade centres 
in the Baltic, and extending commerce in the Alediter- 
ranean. 

This activity in agriculture, manufacture, and com- 
merce brouo'ht wealth and comfort. The dwellino:s were 
improved. Carpets took the place of rushes ; the intro- 
duction of chimneys brought the pleasures of the fireside ; 
gloomy castles, built for military strength, gave place to 
elegant palaces, surrounded bv Italian gardens. Grammar 
schools and colleges were established ; and the printing- 
press, freely used for the promulgation and defence of 
facts and opinions, advanced the general intelligence. A 
learned woman herself, Elizabeth lent her influence and 
that of her court to the cause of letters. While the 
dungeon and the stake were crushing out intellectual 
freedom in Italy and Spain ; while Trance was distracted 
by internal religious dissension ; while foreign oppression 
was destroying the trade of the Netherlands, — England, 
under the prosperous reign of Elizabeth, was constantly 
gaining in wealth, intelligence, and power. 

These outward conditions could not fail to have an 
influence upon the thought and feeling of the English na- 
tion, and to manifest themselves in the literary productions 
of the time. The proud success achieved by England in 



J 



FIRST CREATIVE TERIOD. 83 

the face of great odds naturally aroused a vigorous and 
dauntless spirit. The Englishman of that day became 
aggressive, persisted in the face of obstacles, drew back 
before no dangers, despaired of no success. With the 
growing prominence of his country, his views became com- 
prehensive and penetrating. He was forced to think with 
a large horizon. Called upon to deal with large interests, 
his intellect expanded and his character became weighty ; 
engaged in conducting large enterprises, he developed 
large executive powers. 

Life became intense and rich in all its relations. No 
interest, whether social, political, commercial, or religious, 
escaped attention. The energies of the English people 
were strung to the highest pitch, and wrought the best re- 
sults of which the English mind is capable. To say noth- 
ing of minor writers. Hooker's " Ecclesiastical Polity " is 
a master-piece in the field of theology. Spenser's " Faery 
Oueene," with its unexampled richness of imagination, is 
a fountain from which the poets of succeeding genera- 
tions have drawn inspiration. And Shakespeare, with his 
many-sided and inexhaustible intellect, stands easily at 
the head of the world's great dramatists. With its great 
achievements, we may well call this the first creative 
period in our literature. 



84 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



ED M VXD SPEXSER. 

For more than one hundred and fifty years no poet worthy 
to bear the mantle of Chaucer had appeared in England. But 
mighty movements had been going on in Europe — the revival 
of letters, great inventions and discoveries, and the widespread 
religious movement known as the Reformation. It was an age 
of great thoughts and aspirations, and of marvellous achieve- 
ment. The time had at length come, under the prosperous and 
illustrious reign of Elizabeth, for English greatness to mirror 
itself in literature. A group of great writers arose. To Ed- 
mund Spenser belongs the honor of having been the hrst 
genius to reflect the greatness of his age and country in an 
imperishable poem, and to add new lustre to a splendid period 
in English history. 

As with Chaucer, we have to lament the meagreness of 
detail connected' with the life of Spenser. The year 1552, 
which is determined by an incidental and not wholly conclu- 
sive reference in one of his sonnets, is commonly accepted as 
the year of his birth. The place of his birth, not otherwise 
known, is likewise determined by a passage in his "" Prothala- 
mion,"" a poem written near the close of his life : — 

" At length they all to meny London came, 
To merry London, my most kindly nurse. 
That to me gave this life's first native source, 
Though from another place I take my name, 
An house of ancient fame." 

Nothing is known of his parents ; but. as he was a charity 
student, it is to be inferred that they were in humble circum- 
stances. He received his preparatory training at the ^^lerchant 



EDMUND SPENSER. 85 

Taylor School, and at the age of seventeen entered Pembroke 
Hall, Cambridge, where he earned his board by acting as sizar 
or waiter. He took the degree of Bachelor of Arts in 1572, 
and that of Master of Arts four years later. The particulars 
of his life at Cambridge are, for the most part, matters of mere 
conjecture. We may safely infer from his broad scholarship 
that he was a diligent student. His writings show an intimate 
acquaintance, not only with classical antiquity, but also with 
the great writers — Chaucer, Dante, Tasso, Ariosto, Marot — 
of the dawning modern era. 

A friendship with Gabriel Harvey, a fellow of Pembroke 
Hall, and an enthusiastic writer and educator, was not without 
influence upon his poetical career. Harvey encouraged Spen- 
ser in his early literary efforts ; but it is fortunate that his 
advice failed to turn the poet's genius to the drama. After 
leaving the university, Spenser spent a year or two in the north 
of England (it is impossible to be more definite), where he 
wrote his first important work, " The Shepherd's Calendar." 
It was inspired by a deep but unfortunate affection for a coun- 
try lass, who appears in the poem under the anagrammatic 
name, of Rosalinde. Her identity, a puzzle to critics, remained 
for a long time undetermined ; but an American writer, with 
great ingenuity, has shown almost beyond question that the 
young lady was Rose Daniel, sister to the poet of that name.' 

The poem consists of twelve eclogues, named after the 
months of the year. It contains a variety of measures, all of 
which are distinguished for their harmony. Nothing so admir- 
able in metre and phrase had appeared since Chaucer. Many 
archaic words were introduced under the impression, as we are 
told in a prefatory epistle addressed to Harvey, " that they 
bring great grace, and, as one would say. authority to the 
verse." Though less finished than som.e subsequent poems, 
" The Shepherd's Calendar " showed a master's touch, and 
announced the presence of a great poet in England. 

1 See Atlantic Monthly ^ November, 1858. 



86 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Upon the advice of Harvey, Spenser went to London. He 
met Sir Philip Sidney, by whom he was introduced at court, 
and put in the way of preferment. He fell in readily with 
court life, wore a pointed beard and fashionable moustache, and 
acquired a light tone in speaking of women — a levity that soon 
gave place to a truly chivalrous regard. In 1580 he was ap- 
pointed secretary to Lord Grey, deputy to Ireland, and accom- 
panied that official through the bloody scenes connected with 
the suppression of Desmond's rebellion. The duties assigned 
him were ably performed ; and, in recognition of his services, 
he received in 1586, as a grant, Kilcolman Castle and three 
thousand acres of land in the county of Cork. Here he after- 
wards made his home, occasionally visiting London to seek 
preferment or to publish some new work. Though his home 
was not without the attraction of beautiful surroundings, he 
looked upon his life there as a sort of banishment. In one of 
his poems he speaks of — 

" My luckless lot, 
That banisht had myself, like wight forlore, 
Into that waste, where I was quite forgot." 

But however disagreeable to the feelings of Spenser, who 
continued to feel a longing for the " sweet civilities " of Lon- 
don, it can hardly be doubted that his experience in Ireland 
was favorable to the development of his poetic gifts, and found 
a favorable reflection in his greatest poem. It gave a vivid 
realism to his descriptions that in all probability would other- 
wise have been wanting. 

In 1589 he was visited by Sir Walter Raleigh, to whom he 
read the first three books of the " Faery Queene." Seated in 
the midst of an attractive landscape, the poet and the hero make 
a pleasing picture as they discuss the merits of a work that is to 
begin a new era in English literature. Raleigh was so delighted 
with the poem that he urged the author to take it to London — 
advice that was eagerly followed. The poet was granted an 



EDMUiYD SPENSER. Zj 

audience by Elizabeth, and favored with the patronage of sev- 
eral noble ladies ; but further than a pension of fifty pounds, 
which does not appear to have been regularly paid, he received 
no substantial recognition. 

'i'his result was a disappointment to Spenser, who had 
hoped that his literary fame would lead to higher political pre- 
ferment. In '' Colin Clout's Come Home Again," a poem in 
which the incidents of this visit are embodied, he speaks of the 
court in a tone of disappointment and bitterness. In a prefa- 
tory letter addressed to Raleigh, who figures in the poem under 
the title of *' Shepherd of the Ocean,'' Spenser says that the 
work agrees ''with the truth in circumstance and matter;" 
and from this declaration it may be inferred that his por- 
trayal of court-life was drawn, not from imagination, but from 
experience. 

P'or, sooth to say, it is no sort of life 

For shepherd fit to lead in that same place, 

Where each one seeks with malice, and with strife, 

To thrust down other in foul disgrace, 

Himself to raise: and he doth soonest rise 

That best can handle his deceitful wit 

In subtle shifts 

To which him needs a guileful, hollow heart 

Masked with fair dissembling courtesy, 

A filed tongue furnisht with terms of art. 

No art of school, but courtiers' schoolery. 

For arts of school have there small countenance, 

Counted but toys to busy idle brains, 

And there professors find small maintenance, 

But to be instruments of others' gains. 

Nor is there place for any gentle wit 

Unless to please it can itself apply." 

In ''Mother Hubbard's Tale," which exhibits Spenser's 
genius in satire, and is the most interesting of his minor pieces, 
he has spoken of the court in some vigorous lines. This poem 
was published in 1591 ; and though composed, as the author 



88 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

tells us, " in the raw conceit of youth," it shows the touch of 
his mature years. No doubt it expresses his own bitter experi- 
ence : — 

" Full little knowest thou that hast not tried 
What hell it is in suing long to abide; 
To lose good days that might be better spent; 
To waste long nights in pensive discontent; 
To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow; 
To feed on hope, to pine with fear and sorrow; 
To have thy prince's grace, yet want her peers'; 
To have thy asking, yet wait many years; 
To fret thy soul with crosses and with cares ; 
To eat thy heart through comfortless despairs; 
To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, to run, 
To spend, to give, to want, to be undone. 
Unhappy wight, born to disastrous end. 
That doth his life in so long tendance spend ! " 

The first three books of the " Faery Queene " were pub- 
lished in 1590, and were received with an outburst of applause. 
Spenser took rank as the first of living poets. " The admira- 
tion of this great -poem," says Hallam, " was unanimous and 
enthusiastic. No academy had been trained" to carp at his 
genius with minute cavilling ; no recent popularity, no tradi- 
tional fame (for Chaucer was rather venerated than much in 
the hands of the reader) interfered with the immediate recog- 
nition of his supremacy. The ' Faery Queene ' became at 
once the delight of every accomplished gentleman, the model 
of every poet, and the solace of every scholar."' Spenser 
remained in London about a year in the enjoyment of his 
newly-won reputation, and in the pursuit of preferment. But 
in the latter he was disappointed, and returned to Ireland, as 
we have seen, with a feeling of resentment toward the manners 
and morals of the court. 

In 1594 he married a lady by the name of Elizabeth — her 
family name remaining uncertain. In his " Amoretti, or Son- 
nets," he describes the beginning and progress of his affection. 



EDMUND SPENSER. 89 

These sonnets are interesting, not only for their purity and 
delicacy of feeling, but also for the light they throw on the 
poet's life. Whatever may have been the real character of the 
Irish maiden he celebrates, in the poems she is idealized into 
great beauty. It was only after a protracted suit that the poet 
met with encouragement and was able to say, — 

"After long storms' and tempests' sad assay, 
Which hardly I endured heretofore, 
In dread of death, and dangerous dismay. 
With which my silly bark was tossed sore; 
I do at length descry the happy shore. 
In which I hope ere long for to arrive : 
Fair soil it seems from far, and fraught with store 
Of all that dear and dainty is alive. 
Most happy he ! that can at last atchyve 
The joyous safety of so sweet a rest ; 
Whose least delight sufficeth to deprive 
Remembrance of all pains which him opprest. 

All pains are nothing in respect of this; 

All sorrows short that gain eternal bliss." 

The marriage, which took place in 1594, was celebrated in 
an " Epithalamion," which ranks as the noblest bridal song 
ever written. 

In 1596 Spenser wrote his "View of the State of Ireland," 
which shows, not the poet's hand, but that of a man of affairs. 
It is rigorous in policy and inexorable in spirit. He sees but 
one side of the subject. After an elaborate review of the 
history, character, and institutions of the Irish, which are pro- 
nounced full of "evil usages," he lays down his plan of pacifi- 
cation. Garrison Ireland with an adequate force of infantry 
and cavalry ; give the Irish twenty days to submit ; and after 
that time, hunt down the rebels like wild beasts. " If they be 
well followed one winter, ye shall have little work to do with 
them the next summer." Famine would complete the work of 
the sword ; and in less than two years, Spenser thought, the 
country would be peaceful and open to English colonists. Sub- 



90 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

mission or extermination — tliis was tlie simple solution of the 
Irish problem he proposed. " Bloody and cruel " he recog- 
nized it to be ; but holding the utter subjugation of Ireland 
necessary to the preservation of English power and the Prot- 
estant religion, he would not draw back '• for the sight of any 
such rueful object as must thereupon follow." 

In 1598 Spenser was appointed sheriff of Cork: and Ty- 
rone's rebellion breaking out soon afterward, Kilcolman Castle 
was sacked and burned. The poet and his wife escaped with 
difficulty, and it is probable that their youngest child, who was 
left behind, perished in the flames. In 1599 Spenser, over- 
come by misfortunes, died in a common London inn, and was 
buried in Westminster Abbey, near the tomb of his master, 
Chaucer. His life was full of disappointment. He never ob- 
tained the preferment to which he aspired, and he felt his 
failure with all the keenness of sensitive genius. And yet, 
under different and happier circumstances, his great natural 
gifts would probably not have borne such rich fruitage. 

All that we know of Spenser is of good report. He had 
the esteem and friendship of the best people of his time ; he 
was faithful in his attachments, and irreproachable in his out- 
ward life. In his comparative seclusion he was able to forget 
the hard realities of his lot, and to dwell much of the time in 
an ideal world ; and the poetic creations, which he elaborated 
in the quietude of Kilcolman Castle, had the good fortune to 
gain immediate and hearty recognition. He has been aptly 
styled " the poet's poet ; " and it is certain that his writings, 
especially the " Faery Queene," have been a perennial source 
of inspiration and power to his successors. Pope read him in 
his old age with the same zest as in his youth. Dryden looked 
up to him as master ; and Milton called him " our sage and 
serious poet, whom I dare be known to think a better teacher 
than Scotus or Aquinas." 

As already stated, the first three books of the " Faery 
Queene" were published in 1590. Three more books appeared 
in 1596 — an interval that indicates the conscientious labor 



EDMUND SPENSER. 9 1 

Spenser bestowed upon his productions. The plan of the work 
contemplated no fewer than twelve boolsS; but in its present 
incomplete state it is one of the longest poems in the lan- 
guage. There is a tradition that three unpublished books were 
burned in the destruction of Kilcolman Castle, but it is prob- 
ably without foundation. The "Faery Queene " is Spenser's 
master-piece. Keenly sympathizing with all the great interests 
and movements of his time, he embodied in this work his 
noblest thoughts and feelings. Here his genius had full play, 
and attained the highest results of which it was capable. In 
this poem the Elizabethan age is reflected in all its splendor. 

The stanza of the poem was the poet's own invention, and 
properly bears his name. It is singularly melodious and effec- 
tive, and has since been made the medium of some of the fin- 
est poetry in our language. Though somewhat difficult in its 
structure, Spenser handled it with masterly ease and skill, and 
poured forth his treasures of description, narrative, reflection, 
feeling, and fancy, without embarrassment. 

The poem is itself an allegory, a form that the poet took 
some pains to justify. In a prefatory letter addressed to 
Raleigh, the author fully explains his plan, and makes clear 
what w^ould otherwise have remained obscure. '' The generall 
end, therefore, of all the booke,'" he says, '" is to fashion a 
gentleman or noble person in vertuous and gentle discipline. 
Which for that I conceived shoulde be most plausible and 
pleasing, beeing coloured with an historicall fiction, the which 
the most part of men delight to read, rather for varietie of 
matter than for profit of the ensample : I chose the historic of 
King Arthure, as most fit for the excellencie of his person, 
beeing made famous by many men's former works, and also 
furthest from the danger of envie, and suspicion of present 
time.'' Prince Arthur is the central figure of the poem, in 
whose person, Spenser says, " I sette forth magnificence in 
particular, which vertue, for that (according to Aristotle and 
the rest) is the perfection of all the rest and containeth in it 
them all, therefore in the whole course I mention the deeds 



92 ENGLISH LITERATURE, 

of Arthure appliable to that vertue, which I write of in that 
booke." 

By magnificence Spenser meant magnanimity^ which, accord- 
ing to Aristotle, contains all the moral virtues. Twelve other 
knights are made the representatives or patrons of so many sep- 
arate virtues. The Knight of the Red Cross represents holi- 
ness ; Sir Guyon, temperance ; Britomartis, a lady knight, chastity ; 
and so on. But the allegory is double. In addition to the ab- 
stract moral virtues, the leading characters represent contem- 
porary persons. The Faery Queene stands for the glory of God 
in general, and for Queen Elizabeth in particular ; Arthur for 
magnanimity, and also for the P^arl of Leicester ; the Red Cross 
Knight for holiness, and also for the model Englishman ; Una 
for truth, and also for the Protestant Church ; Duessa ior false- 
hood, and also for the Roman Church, etc. But in this second 
part of the allegory a close resemblance is not to be expected, 
as flattery often guides the poet's pen or warps his judgment. 
While an acquaintance with the allegory is necessary for a 
complete understanding of the poem, it adds perhaps but little 
to the interest of perusal. The poem possesses an intrinsic 
interest as a narrative of adventure ; and our sympathy with 
the actual personages moving before us causes us to lose sight 
of their typical character. 

The " P^aery Queene," it must be confessed, is defective in 
construction. Spenser intended to follow the maxim of Horace 
and the example of Homer and Virgil by plunging into the 
midst of his story ; but he failed in his purpose, and a prose 
introduction, in the shape of a letter to Raleigh, became neces- 
sary to understand the poem. " The methode of a poet histori- 
call is not such as of an historiographer. For an historiographer 
discourseth of affaires orderly as they were done, accounting 
as well the times as the actions ; but a poet thrusteth into the 
middest, even where it most concerneth him, and there recours- 
ing to the things forepast, and divining of things to come, 
maketh a pleasing analysis of all. The beginning, therefore, 
of my historic, if it were to be told by an historiographer, 



EDMUND SPENSER. 93 

should be the twelfth booke, which is the last ; where I devise 
that the Faery Queene kept her annuall feast twelve dales ; 
upon which twelve severall dayes, the occasions of the twelve 
severall adventures hapned, which being undertaken by xii. 
severall knights, are in these twelve books severally handled 
and discoursed." 

The first book, of which two cantos are hereafter given, is 
the most interesting of all. In the letter already quoted it is 
explained as follows : "In the beginning of the feast there pre- 
sented him selfe a tall clownish younge man, who falling before 
the Queene of Faeries desired a boone (as the manner then 
was) which during that feast she might not refuse ; which was 
that hee might have the atchievement of any adventure, which 
during that feast should happen ; that being granted, he rested 
him selfe on the floore, unfit through his rusticitie for a better 
place. Soone after entred a faire ladie in mourning weedes, 
riding on a white asse, with a dwarfe behind her leading a war- 
like steed, that bore the armes of a knight, and his speare 
in the dwarfe's hand. She falling before the Queene of Faeries 
complayned that her father and mother, an ancient king and 
queene, had bene by an huge dragon many yeers shut up in a 
brazen castle, who thence suffered them not to issew : and 
therefore besought the Faery Queene to assigne her some one 
of her knights to take on him that exployt. Presently that 
clownish person upstarting, desired that adventure ; w^hereat the 
Queene much wondering, and the lady much gain-saying, yet 
he earnestly importuned his desire. In the end the lady told 
him, that unlesse that armour which she brought would serve 
him (that is the armour of a Christian man specified by Saint 
Paul, V. Ephes.) that he could not succeed in that enterprise, 
which being forth-with put upon him with due furnitures there- 
unto, he seemed the goodliest man in al that company, and was 
well liked of the lady. And eftesoones taking on him knight- 
hood, and mounting on that strange courser, he went forth with 
her on that adventure : where beginneth the first booke, viz., — 

* A gentle knight was pricking on the plaine,' etc." 



94 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

The allegory of the " Faery Queene '' is nowhere more wor- 
thy of study than in the first book. Like Bunyan's jDilgrim, 
the Red Cross Knight shows the conflicts of the human soul 
in its effort to attain to holiness. This is the sublimest of all 
conflicts. The knight, clad in Christian armor, sets forth to 
make war upon the dragon, the Old Serpent. After a time the 
light of heaven is shut out by clouds, and the warrior loses his 
way in the " wandering wood," the haunt of Error. 

" For light she hated as the deadly bale, 

Ay wont in desert darkness to remaine, 
Where plain none might her see, nor she see any plain." 

Only after a long and bitter struggle, typifying the conflicts 
of the earnest soul in search of truth, does the knight succeed 
in vanquishing this dangerous foe. This danger passed, 
another follows. The hero, with his fair companion, at length 
encounters — 

" An aged sire, in long blacke weedes yclad, 
His feet all bare, his beard all hoarie gray, 
And by his belt his booke he hanging had; 
Sober he seemde, and very sagely sad, 
And to the grovmd his eyes were lowly bent, 
Simple in shew, and voide of malice bad, 
And all the way he prayed, as he went, 

And often knockt his breast, as one that did repent." 

This was Archimago or Hypocrisy, who deceives the Knight 
with his magic art. Truth is made to seem falsehood, and 
falsehood truth. This deception is the cause of all his subse- 
quent trouble — his struggle with Sans Foy or Infidelity, his 
companionship with Duessa or Falsehood, his sojourn and 
trials at the palace of Pride, and his capture and imprison- 
ment by the giant Orgoglio or Antichrist. He is finally de- 
livered by Arthur, and conducted by Una to the house of 
Holiness, where he is taught repentance. Spiritual discipline 
frees him from all his stains, and sends him forth once more 



EDMUND SPENSER. 95 

protected with his celestial armor. He meets the grim Dragon, 
and after a prolonged conflict gloriously triumphs. The book 
naturally ends with his betrothal to Una or Truth, emblematic 
of eternal union. Through trials and sufi'ering to final victory 
and truth — this is the history of every earnest soul ; and never 
before was it portrayed with such magnificent imagery and in 
such melodious language. 

As will be readily comprehended, a striking feature of the 
poem is its unlikeness to actual life. In no small degree it ap- 
pears artificial and unreal. The personages are somewhat 
shadowy. A large part of the incident and sentiment belongs 
to an ideal age of chivalry. All this is apt to affect the realis- 
tic or prosaic reader unpleasantly. But the poem should be 
approached in the spirit with which it was written. Instead of 
stopping to criticise the ideas, fashions, and superstitions of 
the Middle Ages, we should surrender ourselves into the magi- 
cian's hands, and follow him submissively and sympathetically 
through the ideal realms into which he leads us. The poem 
then becomes, in the words of Lowell, " the land of pure heart's 
ease, where no ache or sorrow of spirit can come." 

Spenser was surpassingly rich in imagination — that faculty 
without which no great poem is possible. He possessed an 
extraordinary power for appreciating and portraying beauty. 
His mind was extremely capacious ; and, gathering all the liter- 
ary treasures of the past, whether mediaeval, classic, or Chris^ 
tian, he gave them new and fadeless forms. His invention 
was almost inexhaustible. His facility in description some- 
times betrayed him into tedious excess. In his fondness for 
details, he occasionally wrote passages that are simply nau- 
seating. His style lacks the classic qualities of brevity, force, 
and self-restraint. But we shall nowhere else find a more flow- 
ing and melodious verse, an atmosphere of finer sentiment, 
and a larger movement or richer coloring. He may be fairly 
styled the Rubens of English poetry. Every canto of the 
" Faery Queene " presents passages in which thought, dic- 
tion, and melody are combined in exquisite harmony. 



96 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



THE FIRST BOOKE OF THE FAERY QUEEXE. 

CONTAYNING THE LEGEND OF THE KnIGHT OK THE ReD CrOSSE, OR OF 

HOLINESSE. 

I. 

Lo ! I, the man whose Muse whylome did maske, 
As time her taught, in lowly Shepheards weeds, 
Am now enforst, a farre uniitter taske, 
For trumpets sterne to chaunge mine oaten reeds, 
And sing of knights and ladies gentle deeds ; 
Whose praises having slept in silence long. 
Me, all to meane, the sacred Muse areeds 
To blazon broade emongst her learned throng : 
Fierce warres and faithful loves shall moralize mv song-. 



Helpe then, O holy virgin, chiefe of nyne. 
Thy weaker Novice to performe thy will ; 
Lay forth out of thine everlasting scryne 

• The antique rolles, which there lye hidden still. 
Of Faery Icnights, and fayrest Tanaquill, 
Whom that most noble Briton Prince so long 
Sought through the w^orld, and suffered so much ill, 
That I must rue his undeserved wrong : 

O, helpe thou my weake wit, and sharpen my dull tong ! 

III. 

And thou, most dreaded impe of highest Jove, 
Faire Venus sonne, that with thy cruell dart 
At that good knight so cunningly didst rove, 
That glorious fire it kindled in his hart ; 
Lay now thy deadly heben bowe apart. 
And with thy mother mylde come to mine ayde ; 
Come, both ; and with you bring triumphant Mart, 
In loves and gentle jollities arraid, 
After his murdrous spoyles and bloudie rage allayd. 



THE FAERY QUEENE. 9/ 

IV. 

And with them eke, O Goddesse heavenly bright, 
Mirrour of grace and majestie divine. 
Great ladie of the greatest isle, whose light 
Like Phoebus lampe throughout the world doth shine. 
Shed thy faire beames into my feeble eyne. 
And raise my thoughtes, too humble and too vile, 
To thinke of that true glorious type of thine. 
The argument of mine afiflicted stile : 
The which to heare vouchsafe, O dearest dread, a while. 

CANTO I. 

Tlie patron of true Holinesse, 

Foule Errour doth defeate ; 
Hypocrisie, him to entrappe, 

Dotli to his home entreate. 

I. 

A GENTLE Knight was pricking on the plaine, 
Ycladd in mightie amies and silver shielde. 
Wherein old dints of deepe woundes did remaine. 
The cruell markes of many a bloody fielde ; 
Yet armes till that time did he never wield : 
His angry steede did chide his foming bitt, 
As much disdayning to the curbe to yield : 
Full jolly knight he seemd, and faire did sitt. 
As one for knightly giusts and fierce encounters fitt. 

II. 

And on his brest a bloodie crosse he bore. 
The deare remembrance of his dying Lord, 
For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he wore, 
And dead, as living ever, him ador'd : 
Upon his shield the like was also scor'd. 
For soveraine hope which in his helpe he had. 
Right, faithfull, true he was in deede and word ; 
But of his cheere did seeme too solemne sad ; 
Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad. 



98 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

III. 
Upon a great adventure he was bond, 
That greatest Gloriana to him gave, 
(That greatest glorious queene of Faery lond,) 
To winne him worshippe, and her grace to have. 
Which of all earthly things he most did crave : 
And ever as he rode his hart did earne 
To prove his puissance in battell brave 
Upon his foe, and his new force to learne ; 
Upon his foe, a dragon horrible and stearne. 

IV. 

A lovely ladie rode him faire beside, 
Upon a lowly asse more white then snow, 
Yet she much whiter ; but the same did hide 
Under a vele, that wimpled was full low ; 
And over a.ll a blacke stole shee did throw : 
As one that inly mournd, so was she sad. 
And heavie sate upon her palfre}' slow ; 
Seemed in heart some hidden care she had ; 
And by her in a line a milkewhite lambe she lad. 



So pure and innocent, as that same lambe, 
She was in life and every vertuous lore ; 
And by descent from royall lynage came. 
Of ancient kinges and queenes, that had of yore 
Their scepters stretcht from east to westerne shore, 
And all the world in their subjection held ; 
Till that infernall feend with foule uprore 
Forwastcd all their land, and them expeld : 
Whom to avenge she had this knight from far compeld. 

VI. 

Behind her farre away a dwarfe did lag, 
That lasie seemd. in being ever last. 
Or wearied with bearing of her bag 
Of needments at his backe. Thus as they past. 



THE FAERY QUEENE. 99 

The day with cloudes was suddeine overcast, 
And angry Jove an hideous storme of raine 
Did poure into his lemans lap so fast. 
That everie wight to shrowd it did constrain ; 
And this faire couple eke to shroud themselves were fain. 

VII. 

Enforst to seeke some covert nigh at hand, 
A shadie grove not farr away they spide. 
That promist ayde the tempest to withstand ; 
Whose loftie trees, yclad with sommers pride. 
Did spred so broad, that heavens light did hide, 
Not perceable with power of any starr : 
And all within were pathes and alleies wide. 
With footing worne, and leading inward farr : 
Faire harbour that them seems ; so in they entred ar. 

VIII. 

And foorth they passe, with pleasure forward led, 
Joying to heare the birds sweete harmony, 
Which, therein shrouded from the tempest dred, 
Seemd in their song to scorne the cruell sky. 
Much can they praise the trees so straight and hy, 
The sayling pine ; the cedar proud and tall ; 
The vine-propp elme ; the poplar never dry ; 
The builder oake, sole king of forrests all ; 
The aspine good for staves ; the cypresse funerall ; 

IX. 

The laurell, meed of mightie conquerours 
And poets sage ; the firre that weepeth still : 
The willow, worne of forlorne paramours : 
The eugh, obedient to the benders will ; 
The birch for shaftes ; the sallow for the mill ; 
The mirrhe sweete-bleeding in the bitter wound ; 
The warlike beech : the ash for nothing ill ; 
The fruitfuU olive : and the platane round ; 
The carver holme ; th2 maple seeldom inward sound. 



:0.0 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

■ X. 
Led with delight, they thus beguile the way, 
Untill the blustring storme is overblowne : 
When, weening to returne whence they did stray. 
They cannot finde that path, which first was showne, 
But wander too and fro in waies unknowne, 
Furthest from end then, when they neerest weene. 
That makes them doubt their wits be not their owne : 
So many pathes, so many turnings scene, 
That which of them to take in div^erse doubt they been. 

XI. 

At last resolving forward still to fare. 
Till that some end they finde, or in or out. 
That path they take, that beaten seemd most bare, 
And like to lead the labyrinth about : 
Which when by tract they hunted had throughout. 
At length it brought them to a hollowe cave 
Amid the thickest woods. The champion stout 
Eftsoones dismounted from his courser brave, 
And to the dwarfe a while his needless spere he gave. 

XII. 

" Be well aware,"' quoth then that ladie milde, 
" Least suddaine mischiefe ye too rash provoke: 
The danger hid. the place unknowne and wilde, 
Breedes dreadfuU doubts : oft fire is without smoke, 
And perill without show : therefore your stroke. 
Sir knight, with-hold. till further tryall made."' 
'•Ah ladie," sayd he. •• shame were to revoke 
The forward footing for an hidden shade : 
Vertue gfives her selfe lisfht through darknesse for to wade. 



'•Yea but." quoth she. "-the perill of this place 
I better wot than you : though nowe too late 
To wish you backe returne with foule disgrace. 
Yet wisedome wariies. whilest foot is in the gate. 



THE FAERY QUEENE. 1 01 

To stay the steppe, ere forced to retrate. 
This is the wandring wood, this Errours den, 
A monster vile, whom God and man does hate. 
Therefore I read beware.'' '• Fly, fly," quoth then 
The feareful dwarfe, •• This is no place for living men." 



But, full of fire and greedy hardiment, 
The youthfull knight could not for ought be staide ; 
But forth unto the darksom hole he went, 
And looked in : his glistring armor made 
A little glooming light, much like a shade 
By which he saw the ugly monster plaine, 
Halfe like a serpent horribly displaide, 
But th'other halfe did womans shape retaine, 
Most lothsom, filthie, foule, and full of vile disdaine. 

XV. 

And, as she lay upon the durtie ground, 
Her huge long taile her den all overspred, 
Yet was in knots and many boughtes upwound, 
Pointed with mortall sting. Of her there bred 
A thousand yong ones, which she dayly fed. 
Sucking upon her poisnous dugs ; each one 
Of sundrie shapes, yet all ill-fav^ored : 
Soone as that uncouth light upon them shone, 
Into her mouth they crept, and suddain all were gone. 



Their dam upstart out of her den effraide. 
And rushed forth, hurling her hideous taile 
About her cursed head ; whose folds displaid 
Were stretcht now forth at length without entraile. 
She lookt about, and seeing one in mayle, 
Armed to point, sought backe to turne againe ; 
For light she hated as the deadly bale, 
Ay wont in desert darknes to remaine, 
Where plain none might her see, nor she see any plaine. 



102 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

XVII. 

Which when the vaHant elfe perceiv'd, he lept 
As lyon fierce upon the flying pray. 
And with his trenchahd blade her boldly kept 
From turning backe. and forced her to stay : 
Therewith enrag'd she loudly gan to bray, 
And turning fierce her speckled taile advaunst, 
Threatning her angrie sting, him to dismay ; 
Who, nought aghast, his mightie hand enhaunst : 
The stroke down from her head unto her shoulder glaunst. 

XVIII. 

Much daunted with that dint her sence was dazd ; 
Yet kindling rage her selfe she gathered round, 
And all attonce her beastly bodie raizd 
With double forces high above the ground : 
Tho, wrapping up her wrethed sterne arownd, 
Lept fierce upon his shield, and her huge traine 
All suddenly about his body wound. 
That hand or foot to stirr he strove in vaine. 
God helpe the man so wrapt in Errours endlesse traine ! 

XIX. 

His lady, sad to see his sore constraint, 
Cride out, " Now, now, Sir knight, shew what 3*6 bee : 
Add faith unto your force, and be not faint : 
Strangle her, or els she sure will strangle thee." 
That when he heard, in great perplexitie. 
His gall did grate for grief e and high disdaine ; 
And, knitting all his force, got one hand free. 
Wherewith he grypt her gorge with so great paine. 
That soone to loose her wicked bands did her constraine. 

XX. 

Therewith she spewd out of her filthie maw 
A floud of poyson horrible and blacke. 
Full of great lumps of flesh and gobbets raw. 
Which stunck so vildlv. that it forst him slacke 



( 



THE FAERY QUEENE. IO3 

His grasping hold, and frome her turne him backe : 
Her vomit full of bookes and papers was, 
With loathly frogs and toades, which eyes did lacke. 
And creeping sought way in the weedy gras : 
Her tilthie parbreake all the place defiled has. 

XXI. 

As when old Father Nilus gins to swell 
With timely pride above the /Egyptian vale, 
His fattie waves doe fertile sHme outwell, 
And overflow each plaine and lowly dale : 
But, when his later spring gins to avale, 
Huge heapes of mudd he leaves, wherein there breed 
Ten thousand kindes of creatures, partly male 
And partly f email, of his fruitful seed ; 
Such ugly monstrous shapes elswher may no man reed. 



The same so sore annoyed has the knight, 
That, welnigh choked with the deadly stinke. 
His forces faile, ne can no lenger fight : 
Whose corage when the feend perceivd to shrinke. 
She poured forth out of her hellish sinke 
Her fruitfull cursed spawne of serpents small, 
(Deformed monsters, fowle. and blacke as inke,) 
Which swarming all about his legs did crall, 
And him encombred sore, but could not hurt at all. 

XXIII. 

As gentle shepheard in sweete eventide. 
When ruddy Phoebus gins to welke in west. 
High on an hill, his flocke to vewen wide, 
Markes which doe byte their hasty supper best ; 
A cloud of cumbrous gnattes doth him molest. 
All striving to infixe their feeble stinges, 
That from their noyance he no where can rest ; 
But with his clownish hands their tender wings 
He brusheth oft. and oft doth mar their murmurings. 



104 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



Thus ill bestedd, and fearefull more of shame 
Then of the certeine perill he stood in, 
Halfe furious unto his foe he came. 
Resolvd in minde all suddenly to win. 
Or soone to lose, before he once would lin ; 
And stroke at her with more then manly force, 
That from her body, ful of filthie sin, 
He raft her hatefuU heade without remorse : 
A streame of cole-black blood forth gushed from her corse. 

XXV. 

Her scattered brood, soone as their parent deare 
They saw so rudely falling to the ground, 
Groning full deadly all with troublous feare 
Gathred themselves about her body round, 
Weening their wonted entrance to have found 
At her wide mouth ; but, being there withstood. 
They flocked all about her bleeding wound, 
And sucked up ther dying mothers bloud ; 
Making her death their life, and eke her hurt their good. 

XXVI. 

That detestable sight him much amazde. 
To see th' unkindly impes, of heaven accurst, 
Devoure their dam ; on whom while so he gazd, 
Having all satisfide their bloudy thurst. 
Their bellies swolne he saw with fulnesse burst 
And bowels gushing forth : well worthy end 
Of such, as drunke her life, the which them nurst 
Now needeth him no lenger labour spend, 
His foes have slaine themselves, with whom he should contend. 

xxvii. 
His lady seeing all that chaunst from farre, 
Approcht in hast to greet his victorie : 
And saide, " Faire knight, borne under happie starre, 
Who see your vanquisht foes before you lye. 
Well worthie be vou of that armory. 



THE FAERY QUEENE. IO5 

Wherein ye have great glory wonne this day, 
And proved your strength on a strong enimie, 
Your first adventure : many such I pray, 
And henceforth ever wish that Hke succeed it may ! '^ 

XXVIII. 

Then mounted he upon his steede againe. 
And with the lady backward sought to wend : 
That path he kept, which beaten was most plaine, 
Ne ever would to any byway bend ; 
But still did follow one unto the end, 
The which at last out of the wood them brought. 
So forward on his way (with God to frend) 
He passed forth, and new adventure sought: 
Long way he travelled, before he heard of ought. 

XXIX. 

At length they chaunst to meet upon the way 
An aged sire, in long blacke weedes yclad, 
His feete all bare, his beard all hoarie gray. 
And by his belt his booke he hanging had ; 
Sober he seemde, and very sagely sad ; 
And to the ground his eyes were lowly bent, 
Simple in shew, and voide of malice bad ; 
And all the way he prayed as he went. 
And often knockt his brest, as one that did repent. 

XXX. 

He faire the knight saluted, louting low, 
Who faire him quited, as that courteous was ; 
And after asked him, if he did know 
Of straunge adventures, which abroad did pas. 
" Ah ! my dear sonne," quoth he, " how should, alas ! 
Silly old man, that lives in hidden cell, 
Bidding his beades all day for his trespas, 
Tydings of warre and worldly trouble tell? 
With holy father sits not with such thinges to mell. 

XXXI. 

" But if of daunger, which hereby doth dwell. 
And homebredd evil ve desire to heare. 



I06 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Of a straunge man I can you tidings tell. 
That wasteth all this countrie, farre and neare/' 
" Of suche,''' saide he, "I chiefly doe inquere : 
And shall thee well rewarde to shew the place, 
In which that wicked wight his dayes doth weare : 
For to all knighthood it is foule disgrace, 
That such a cursed creature lives so long a space." 

XXXII. 

" Far hence," quoth he, " in wastfull wildernesse 
His dwelling is, by which no living wight 
May ever passe, but thorough great distresse."' 
" Now,'' saide the ladie, " draweth toward night ; 
And well I wote, that of your later fight 
Ye all forwearied be ; for what so strong, 
But, wanting rest, will also want of might ? 
The sunne, that measures heaven all day long, 
At night doth baite his steedes the ocean waves emong. 

XXXIII. 

" Then with the sunne take. Sir, your timely rest, 
And with new day new worke at once begin : 
Untroubled night, they say, gives counsell best." 
" Right well, Sir knight, ye have advised bin,"' 
Quoth then that aged man : " the way to win 
Is wisely to advise ; now day is spent ; 
Therefore with me ye may take up your in 
For this same night."* The knight was well content ; 
So with that godly father to his home they went. 

XXXIV. 

A litle lowly hermitage it was, 
Downe in a dale, hard by a forest's side, 
Far from resort of people that did pas 
In traveill to and froe : a little wyde 
There was an holy chappell edifyde, 
Wherein the hermite dewly wont to say 
His holy thinges each morne and eventyde : 
Thereby a christall streame did gently play. 
Which from a sacred fountaine welled forth ahvay. 



THE FAERY QUEENE. 10/ 

XXXV. 

Arrived there, the litle house the\' fill, 
Ne looke for entertainement, where none was ; 
Rest is their feast, and all thinges at their will : 
The noblest mind the best contentment has. 
With faire discourse the evening so they pas ; 
For that olde man of pleasing wordes had store. 
And well could file his tongue as smooth as glas : 
He told of saintes and popes, and evermore 
He strowd an Ave-Ma)-y after and before, 

xxxvr. 

The drouping night thus creepeth on them fast ; 
And the sad humor loading their eyeliddes. 
As messenger of Morpheus, on them cast 
Sweet slombring deaw, the which to sleep them biddes ; 
Unto their lodgings then his guestes he riddes : 
Where when all drownd in deadly sleepe he findes, 
He to his studie goes ; and there amiddes 
His magick bookes, and artes of sundrie kindes. 
He seekes out mighty charmes to trouble sleepy minds. 

xxxvii. 
Then choosing out few words most horrible, 
(Let none them read) thereof did verses frame; 
With which, and other spelles like terrible, 
He bad awake blacke Plutoes griesly Dame : 
And cursed heven ; and spake reprochful shame 
Of highest God. the Lord of life and light. 
A bold bad man, that dar'd to call by name 
Great Gorgon, prince of darkness and dead night ; 
At which Cocytus quakes, and Styx is put to flight. 

xxxviir. 
And forth he cald out of deepe darknes dredd 
Legions of Sprights, the which, like litle fives 
Fluttring about his ever-damned hedd. 
Awaite whereto their service he applyes, 
To aide his friendes. or frav his enimies : 



I08 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Of those he chose out two, the falsest twoo, 
And fittest for to forge 'true-seeming lyes ; 
The one of them he gave a message to, 
The other by him selfe staide other worke to doo. 



He, making speedy way through spersed ayre. 
And through the world of waters wide and deepe. 
To Morpheus house doth hastily repaire. 
Amid the bowels of the earth full steepe, 
And low, where dawning day doth never peepe, 
His dwelling is ; there Tethys his wet bed 
Doth ever wash, and Cynthia still doth steepe 
In silver deaw his ever-drouping hed. 
Whiles sad Night over him her mantle black doth spred. 

XL. 

Whose double gates he findeth locked fast ; 
The one faire fram'd of burnisht yvory, 
The other all with silver overcast ; 
And wakeful dogges before them farre doe lye, 
Watching to banish Care their enimy, 
Who oft is wont to trouble gentle Sleepe. 
By them the sprite doth passe in quietly, 
And unto Morpheus comes, whom drowned deepe 
In drowsie fit he findes ; of nothing he takes keepe. 

XLT. 

And, more to lulle him in his slumber soft, 
A trickling streame from high rock tumbling downe, 
And ever-drizling raine upon the loft, 
Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like the sowne 
Of swarming bees, did cast him in a swowne. 
No other noyse, nor peoples troublous' cryes, 
As still are wont t' annoy the walled towne. 
Might there be heard ; but carelesse Quiet lyes 
Wrapt in eternall silence farre from enimyes. 

XLII. 

The messenger approching to him spake ; 
But his waste wordes retournd to him in vaine : 



THE FAERY QUEENE. IO9 

So sound he slept, that nought mought him awake. 
Then rudely he him thrust, and pusht with paine, 
Whereat he gan to stretch : but he againe 
Shooke him so'hard, that forced him to speake. 
As one then in a dreame, whose dryer braine 
Is tost with troubled sights and fancies weake, 
He mumbled soft, but would not all his silence breake. 

XLIII. 

The sprite then gan more boldly him to wake, 
And threatned unto him the dreaded name 
Of Hecate : whereat he gan to quake, 
And, lifting up his lompish head, with blame 
Halfe angrie asked him, for what he came. 
" Hether,'' quoth he, " me Archimago sent, 
He that the stubborne sprites can wisely tame, 
He bids thee to him send for his intent 
A fit fiilse dreame, that can delude the sleepers sent." 

XLIV. 

The god obayde ; and, calling forth straight way 
A diverse dreame out of his prison darke, 
Delivered it to him. and downe did lay 
His heavie head, devoide of careful carke : 
Whose sences all were straight benumbd and starke. 
He, backe returning by the yvorie dore. 
Remounted up as light as chearefull larke ; 
And on his litle winges the dreame he bore 
In hast unto his lord, where he him left afore. 

XLV. 

Who all this while, with charmes and hidden artes. 
Had made a lady of that other spright. 
And fram'd of liquid ayre her tender partes, 
So lively, and so like in all mens sight. 
That weaker sence it could have ravisht quight : 
The maker selfe. for all his wondrous witt, 
Was nigh beguiled with so goodly sight. 
Her all in white he clad, and over it 
Cast a black stole, most like to seeme for Una fit. 



no ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



Now, when that ydle dreame was to him brought, 
Unto that elfin knight he bad him fly, 
Where he slept soundly void of evil thought. 
And with false shewes abuse his fantasy, 
In sort as he him schooled privily. 
And that new creature, borne without her dew, 
Full of the makers guyle, with usage sly 
He taught to imitate that lady trew. 
Whose semblance she did carrie under feigned hew. 

XLVII. 

Thus, well instructed, to their worke they haste ; 
And, comming where the knight in slomber lay. 
The one upon his hardie head him plaste, 
And made him dreame of loves and lustful] play, 
That nigh his manly hart did melt away. 



XLIX. 

In this great passion of unwonted lust. 
Or wonted feare of doing ought amis. 
He starteth up, as seeming to mistrust 
Some secret jll, or hidden foe of his. 
Lo ! there before his face his ladie is. 
Under blacke stole hyding her bayted hooke ; 
And as halfe blushing offred him to kis, 
With gentle blandishment and lovely looke, 
Most like that virgin true, which for her knight him took. 



All cleane dismayd to see so uncouth sight, 
And half enraged at her shamelesse guise. 
He thought have slaine her in his fierce despight 
But, hastie heat tempring with sufferance wise. 
He stayde his hand ; and gan himselfe advise 
To prove his sense, and tempt her faigned truth. 
Wringing her hands, in wemens pitteous wise, 
Tho can she weepe, to stirre up gentle ruth 
Both for her noble blood, and for her tender vouth. 



1 



THE FAERY QUEENE. Ill 



And sayd, " Ah Sir, my liege lord, and my love, 
Shall I accuse the hidden cruell fate, 
And mightie causes wrought in heaven above, 
Or the blind god, that doth me thus amate, 
For hoped love to winne me certaine hate? 
Yet thus perforce he bids me do, or die. 
Die is my dew : yet rew my wretched state, 
You, whom my hard avenging destinie 
Hath made judge of my life or death indifterently. 



" Your owne deare sake forst me at first to leave 
My fathers kingdom " — There she stopt with teares ; 
Her swollen hart her speech seemd to bereave ; 
And then againe begun : " My weaker yeares, 
Captiv'd to fortune and frayle worldly feares. 
Fly to your fayth for succour and sure ayde : 
Let me not die in languor and long teares."" 
" Why, dame,"' quoth he, " what hath ye thus dismayd? 
What frayes ye, that were wont to comfort me afifrayd? ^' 

LIII. 

" Love of your selfe." she saide, " and deare constraint. 
Lets me not sleepe, but waste the wearie night 
In secret anguish and unpittied plaint. 
Whiles you in carelesse sleepe are drowned quight." 
Her doubtfuU words made that redoubted knight 
Suspect her truth ; yet since no untruth he knew, 
Her fawning love with foule disdainefull spight 
He would not shend ; but said, "Deare dame, I rew, 
That for my sake unknowne such griefe unto you grew : 

LI v. 
" Assure your selfe, it fell not all to ground; 
For all so deare as life is to my hart, 
I deeme your love, and hold me to you bound : 
Ne let vaine feares procure your needlesse smart. 
Where cause is none ; but to your rest depart.'" 



I 12 



EXGLISH LITER A TURE. 



Not all content, yet seemd she to appease 
Her mournefull plaintes, beguiled of her art, 
And fed with words that could not chose but please 
So. slyding softly forth she turnd as to her ease. 



Long afier lay he musing at her mood, 
INIuch griev'd to thinke that gentle dame so light, 
For whose defence he was to shed his blood. 
At last, dull wearines of former fight 
Having }Tockt asleepe his irkesome spright. 
That troublous dreame gan freshly tosse his braine 
With bowres, and beds, and ladies deare delight : 
But. when lie saw his labour all was vaine. 
With that misformed spright he backe returnd againe. 



i 



CANTO II. 

The guilefuli great Enchaunter parts 
The Redcrosse Knight from Truth : 

Into whose stead faire Falshood steps, 
And workes him woefull ruth. 



By this the northerne wagoner had set 
His sevenfold teme behind the stedfast starre 
That was in ocean waves yet never wet. 
But lirme is fixt, and sendeth light from farre 
To al that in the wide deepe wandring arre : 
And chearefi-ill chaunticlere with liis note shrill 
Had warned once, that Ph:Ebus fiery carre 
111 hast was climbing up the casterne hill. 
Fu".! envious that night so long his roome did fill : 



When those accursed messengers of hell. 
That feigning dreame. and that faire-forged spright, 
Came to their wicked maister, and gan tel 

Their bootelesse paines. and ill succeeding night : 



THE FAERY QUEENE. II3 

Who, all in rage to see his skilfull might 
Deluded so, gan threaten hellish paine, 
And sad Pros^rpines wrath, them to affright. 
But, when he saw his threatning was but vaine. 
He cast about, and searcht his baleful bokes againe. 



VI. 

Retourning to his bed in torment great, 
And bitter anguish of his guilty sight. 
He could not rest ; but did his stout heart eat, 
And wast his inward gall with deepe despight, 
Yrkesome of life, and too long lingring night. 
At last faire Hesperus in highest skie 
Had spent his lampe, and brought forth dawning light 
Then up he rose, and clad him hastily : 
The dwarfe him brought his steed ; so both away do fly. 

VII. 

Now when the rosy-fingred Morning faire. 
Weary of aged Tithones saffron bed, 
Had spred her purple robe through deawy aire, 
And the high hils Titan discovered, 
The royall virgin shooke off drousyhed ; 
And, rising forth out of her baser bowre, 
Lookt for her knight, who far away was fled. 
And for her dwarfe, that wont to wait each howre : 
Then gan she wail and weepe to see that woeful stowre. 

VIII. 

And after him she rode, with so much speede 
As her slowe beast could make ; but all in vaine ; 
For him so far had borne his light-foot steede, 
Pricked with wrath and fiery fierce disdaine. 
That him to follow was but fruitlesse paine : 
Yet she her weary limbes would never rest ; 
But every hil and dale, each wood and plaine, 
Did search, sore grieved in her gentle brest. 
He so ungentlv left her, whome she loved best. 



114 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

IX. 

But subtill Arch imago, when his guests 
He saw divided into double parts, 
And Una wandring in woods and forrests, 
(Th' end of his drift,) he praisd his divelish arts, 
That had such might over true meaning harts : 
Yet rests not so, but other meanes doth make. 
How he may worke unto her further smarts ; 
For her he hated as the hissing snake, 
And in her many troubles did most pleasure take. 



He then devisde liimselfe how to disguise ; 
For by his mighty .science he could take 
As many formes and shapes in seeming \vise. 
As ever Proteus to himselfe could make : 
Sometime a fowle, sometime a fish in lake. 
Now like a foxe, now like a dragon fell : 
That of himselfe he ofte for feare would quake, 
And oft would file away. O who can tell 
The hidden powre of herbes, and might of magick spel I 

XI. 

But now seemde best the person to put on 
Of that good knight, his late beguiled guest : 
In mighty armes he was yclad anon. 
And silver shield : upon his coward brest 
A bloody crosse, and on his craven crest 
A bounch of heares discolourd diversly. 
Full jolly knight he seemde, and wel addrest : 
And, when he sate upon his courser free. 
Saint George himselfe ye would have deemed him to be. 

XII. 

But he. the knight, whose semblaunt he did beare, 
The true Saint George, was wandered far away, 
Still flying from his thoughts and gealous feare : 
Will was his guide, and griefe led him astrav. 






THE FAERY QUEENE. II5 

At last him chaunst to meete upon the way 
A faithlesse Sarazin, all armde to point, 
In whose great shield was writ with letters gay 
Sa?is fay ; full large oflimbe and every joint 
He was, and cared not for God or man a point. 

XIII. 

Hee had a faire companion of his way, 
A goodly lady clad in scarlot red, 
Purfled with gold and pearle of rich assay ; 
And like a Persian mitre on her had 
Shee wore, with crowns and owches garnished, 
The which her lavish lovers to her gave : 
Her wanton palfrey all was overspred 
With tinsell trappings, woven like a wave. 
Whose bridle rung with golden bels and b(~)sses brave. 



With faire disport, and courting dalliaunce, 
She intertainde her lover all the way : 
But, when she saw the knight his speare advaunce, 
She soone left off her mirth and wanton play, 
And bad her knight addresse him to the fray, 
His foe was nigh at hand. He, prickte with pride, 
And hope to winne his ladies hearte that day, 
Forth spurred fast ; adowne his coursers side 
The red bloud trickling staind the way, as he did ride. 

XV. 

The Knight of tlie Redcrosse, when him he spide 
Spurring so hote with rage dispiteous, 
Gan fairely couch his speare, and towards ride : 
Soone meete they both, both fell and furious. 
That, daunted with theyr forces hideous, 
Their steeds doe stagger, and amazed stand ; 
And eke tliemselves, too rudely rigorous, 
Astonied with the stroke of their owne hand. 
Doe backe rebutte, and ech to other vealdeth land. 



Il6 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



As when two rams, stird with ambitious pride, 
Fight for the rule of the rich fleeced flocke, 
Their horned fronts so fierce on either side 
Doe meete, that, with the terror of the shocke, 
Astonied, both stand sencelesse as a blocke, 
Forgetfull of the hanging victory : 
So stood these twaine, unmoved as a rocke, 
Both staring fierce, and holding idely 
The broken reliques of their former cruelty. 



The Sarazin, sore daunted with the bufife, 
Snatcheth his sword, and fiercely to him flies ; 
Who w^ell it wards, and quyteth cuff with cuff: 
Each others equall puissaunce envies, 
And through their iron sides with cruell spies 
Does seeke to perce ; repining courage yields 
No foote to foe : the flashing fier flies. 
As from a forge, out of their burning shields ; 
And streams of purple bloud new die the verdant fields. 



" Curse o'n that Cross,'" quoth then the Sarazin, 
" That keepes thy body from the bitter fitt ; 
Dead long ygoe, I wote, thou haddest bin, 
Had not that charme from thee forwarned itt : 
But yet I warne thee now assured sitt, 
And hide thy head."' Therewith upon his crest 
With rigor so outrageous he smitt. 
That a large share it hewd out of the rest, 
And glauncing downe his shield from blame him fairly blest. 

XIX. 

Who, thereat w^ondrous wroth, the sleeping spark 
Of native virtue gan eftsoones revive ; 
And at his haughty helmet making mark. 
So hugely stroke, that it the Steele did rive, 
And cleft his head : he, tumbling downe ahve, 



THE FABRY QUEEN E. WJ 

With bloudy mouth his mother earth did kis, 
Greeting his grave : his grudging ghost did strive 
With the fraile flesh ; at last it flitted is, 
Whither the soules do fly of men that live amis. 



The lady, when she saw her champion fall, 
Like the old ruines of a broken towre, 
Staid not to waile his woefull funerall ; 
But from him fled away with all her powre : 
Who after her as hastily gan scowre. 
Bidding the dwarfe with him to bring away 
The Sarazins shield, signe of the conqueroure : 
Her soone he overtooke, and bade to stay ; 
For present cause was none of dread lier to dismay. 



Shee turning backe, with ruefull countenance 
Cride, " Mercy, mercy, Sir, vouchsafe to show 
On silly dame, subject to hard mischaunce, 
And to your mighty wil ! " Her humblesse low 
In so ritch weedes, and seeming glorious show, 
Did much emmove his stout heroicke heart ; 
And said, " Deare dame, your suddein overthrow 
Much rueth me ; but now put feare apart. 
And tel, both who ye be, and who that tooke your part. 



Melting in teares, then gan shee thus lament ; 
"The wretched woman, whom unhappy howre 
Hath now made thrall to your commandement, 
Before that angry heavens list to lowre, 
And fortune false betraide me to thy powre, 
Was (O what now availeth that I was !) 
Borne the sole daughter of an Emperour ; 
He that the wide West under his rule has. 
And high hath set his throne where Tiberis doth pas. 



I I 8 ENGLISH LITER A TUKE. 



" He, in the first flowre of my freshest age, 
Betrothed me unto the onely haire 
Of a most mighty king, most rich and sage ; 
Was never prince so faithful! and so faire. 
Was never prince so meeke and debonaire ; 
But, ere my hoped day of spousall shone, 
My dearest lord fell from high honors staire 
Into the hands of hys accursed fone. 
And cmelly was slaine : that shall I ever mone. 

XXIV. 

•• His blessed body, spoild of lively breath, 
Was afterward, I know not how, convaid. 
And fro me hid : of whose most innocent death 
When tidings came to mee. unhappy maid, 
O, how great sorrow my sad soule assaid ! 
Then forth I went his woefull corse to find, 
And many yeares throughout the world 1 straid, 
A virgin widow ; whose deepe wounded mind 
With love long time did languish, as the striken hind. 

XXV. 

*' At last it chaunced this proud Sarazin 
To meete me wandring ; who perforce me led 
With him away : but yet could never win ; 
There lies he now with foule dishonor dead, 
Who, whiles he livde, was called proud Sans foy. 
The eldest of three brethren ; all three bred 
Of one bad sire, whose youngest is Sans joy ; 
And twixt them both was born the bloudv bold Sans lov. 



" In this sad plight, friendlesse. unfortunate, 
Now miserable I f'idessa. dwell. 
Craving of you. in pitty of my state. 
To doe none ill. if please ye not doe well." 



THE FAERY QUEEA^E. II9 

He in great passion al this while did dwell, 
More busying his quicke eies her face to view, 
Then his dull eares to heare what shee did tell ; 
And said, " Faire lady, hart of flint would rew 
The undeserved woes and sorrowes, which ye shew, 

XXVII. 

"Henceforth in safe assuraunce may ye rest, 
Having both found a new friend you to aid. 
And lost an old foe that did you molest ; 
Better new friend then an old foe is said." 
With chaunge of chear the seeming simple maid 
Let fall her eien, as shamefast, to the earth. 
And yeelding soft, in that she nought gainsaid, 
So forth they rode, he feining seemel\ merth, 
And shee cov lookes : so daintv. the\' sav, maketh derth. 



Long time they thus together travelled ; 
Til, weary of their wa) , they came at last 
Where grew two goodly trees, that faire did spred 
Their armes abroad, with gray mosse overcast : 
And their greene leaves, trembling with every blast. 
Made a calme shadowe far in compasse round : 
The fearefull shepheard, often there aghast, 
Under them never sat, ne wont there sound 
His mery oaten pipe ; but shund th' unlucky ground. 

XXIX. 

But this good knight, soone as he them can spie, 
For the coole shade him thither hastly got : 
For golden Phoebus, now ymounted hie. 
From fiery wheeles of his faire chariot 
Hurled his beame so scorching cruell hot. 
That living creature mote it not abide ; 
And his new lady it endured not. 
There they alight, in hope themselves to hide 
From the fierce heat, and rest their wearv limbs a tide. 



I20 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

XXX. 

Faire seemely pleasaunce each to other makes, 
With goodly purposes, there as they sit : 
And in his falsed fancy he her takes 
To be the fairest wight that lived yit ; 
Which to expresse, he bends his gentle wit : 
And, thinking of those braunches greene to frame 
A girlond for her dainty forehead lit 
He pluckt a bough ; out of wliose rifte ihere came 
Smal drops of gory bloud, that trickled down the same. 

XXXI. 

Therewith a piteous yelling voice was heard, 
Crying, •' O spare with guilty hands to teare 
My tender sides in this rough rynd embard : 
But fly. ah ! fly far hence away, for feare 
Least to you hap that happened to me heare. 
And to this wretched lady, my deare love : 
O too deare love, love bought with death too deare 
Astond he stood, and up his heare did hove : 
And with that suddein horror could no member move. 



At last whenas the dreadful! passion 
Was overpast, and manhood well awake ; 
Yet musing at the straunge occasion. 
And doubting much his sence, he thus bespake : 
" What voice of damned ghost from Limbo lake. 
Or guilefull spright wandring in empt}- aire, 
Both which fraile men doe oftentimes mistake, 
Sends to my doubtful eares these speaches rare. 
And rueful! plaints, me bidding guiltlesse blood to spare .^" 



Then, groning deep ; *• Xor damned ghost," quoth he, 
" Nor guileful sprite to thee these words doth speake : 
But once a man Fradubio, now a tree : 
Wretched man. wretched tree ! whose nature weake 



THE FAERY QUEENE. 121 

A cruell witch, her cursed will to wreake, 
Hath thus transformed, and plast in open plaines, 
Where Boreas doth blow full bitter bleake. 
And scorching sunne does dry my secret vaines ; 
For though a tree I seme, yet cold and heat me paines." 

XXXIV. 

" Say on, Fradubio, then, or man or tree," 
Quoth then the knight ; "by whose mischievous arts 
Art thou misshaped thus, as now 1 see ? 
He oft finds med'cine who his griefe imparts ; 
But double griefs aiTflict concealing harts ; 
As raging flames who striveth to suppresse." 
" The author then," said he, " of all my smarts, 
Is one Duessa, a false sorceresse. 
That many errant knights hath broght to wretchednesse. 



" In prime of youthly yeares, when corage hott 
The fire of love, and joy of chevalree 
First kindled in my brest, it was my lott 
To love this gentle lady, whome ye see 
Now not a lady, but a seeming tree ; 
With whome, as once I rode accompanyde, 
Me chaunced of a knight encountred bee, 
That had a like faire lady by his syde ; 
Lyke a faire lady, but did fowle Duessa hyde. 

XXXVI. 

" Whose forged beauty he did take in hand 
All other dames to have exceeded farre ; 
I in defence of mine did likewise stand, 
Mine, that did then shine as the morning starre. 
So both to batteill fierce arraunged arre ; 
In which his harder fortune was to fall 
Under my speare ; such is the dye of warre. 
His lady, left as a prise martiall, 
Did yield her comely person to be at my call. 



122 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



" So doubly lov"d of ladies, unlike faire, 
Th' one seeming such, the other such indeede, 
One day in doubt I cast for to compare 
Whether in beauties glorie did exceede ; 
A rosy girlend was the victors meede, 
Both seemde to win, and both seemde won to bee; 
So hard the discord was to be agreede. 
Fraelissa was as faire as faire mote bee, 
And ever false Duessa seemde as faire as shee. 

XXXVIII. 

" The wicked witch, now seeing all this while 
The doubtfull ballaunce equally to sway. 
What not by right, she cast to win by guile ; 
And, by her hellish science raisd streight way 
A foggy mist that overcast the day, 
And a dull blast that breathing on her face 
Dimmed her former beauties shining ray. 
And with foule ugly forme did her disgrace : 
Then was she fayre alone, when none was faire in place. 



" Then cride she out, ' Fye, fye, deformed wight, 
Whose borrowed beautie now appeareth plaine 
To have before bewitched all mens sight : 
O ! leave her soone, or let her soone be slaine.' 
Her loathly visage viewing with disdaine, 
Eftsoones I thought her such as she me told, 
And would have kild her ; but with faigned paine 
The false witch did my wrathfull hand withhold : 
So left her, where she now is turned to treen mould. 



" Thensforth I tooke Duessa for my dame, 
And in the witch unweeting joyd long time ; 
Ne ever wist but that she was the same ; 
Till on a day (that day is everie prime. 



THE FAERY QUEENE. 1 23 

When witches wont do penance for their crime,) 
I chaunst to see her in her proper hew, 
Bathing her selfe in origane and thyme : 
A filthy foule old woman I did vew. 
That ever to have toucht her I did deadly rew. 

XLI. 

" Her neather partes misshapen, monstruous, 
Were hidd in water ; that I could not see ; 
But they did seeme more foule and hideous, 
Then womans shape man would beleeve to bee. 
Thensforth from her most beastly companie 
I gan refraine, in minde to slipp away, 
Soone as appeard safe opportunitie : 
For danger great, if not assurd decay, 
I saw before mine eyes, if I were knowne to stray. 

XLII. 

" The divelish hag by chaunges of my cheare 
Perceived my thought ; and, drownd in sleepie night, 
With wicked herbes and oyntments did besmeare 
My body all, through charmes and magicke might, 
That all my senses were bereaved quight : 
Then brought she me into this desert waste. 
And by my wretched lovers side me pight ; 
Where now enclosd in wooden wal full faste, 
Banisht from living wights, our wearie dales we waste."' 

XLIII. 

'^ But how long time,'" said then the Elfin knight, 
" Are you in this misformed hous to dwell? '' 
"We may not chaunge," quoth he, " this evill plight, 
Till we be bathed in a living well : 
That is the terme prescribed by the spell." 
" O how," sayd he, " mote I that well out find. 
That may restore you to your wonted well .? " 
" Time and suffised fates to former kynd 
Shall us restore ; none else from hence may us unbynd." 



124 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

XLIV. 

The false Duessa, now Fidessa hight, 
Heard how in vaine Fradubio did lament, 
And knew well all was true. But the good knight, 
Full of sad feare and ghastly dreriment, 
When all this speech the living tree had spent, 
The bleeding bough did thrust into the ground, 
That from the blood he might be innocent. 
And with fresh clay did close the wooden wound : 
Then, turning to his lady, dead with feare her fownd. 

XLV. 

Her seeming dead he found with feigned feare, 
As all unweeting of that well she knew ; 
And paynd himselfe with busie care to reare 
Her out of carelesse swowne. Her eyelids blew, 
And dimmed sight with pale and deadly hew, 
At last she up gan lift ; with trembling cheare 
Her up he tooke, (too simple and too trew,) 
And oft her kist. At length, all passed feare, 
He set her on her steede, and forward forth did beare. 



NOTES TO THE FAERY QUE E ME. 1 25 



NOTES TO THE FAERY QUEENE. 

( The numbers refer to lines.) 

1. I. Lo ! /, the 7nan. — An imitation of the lines prefixed to Virgil's 
yEneid. — W-Vn'/^wi? = formerly, in time past. A. S. hwilmn, dat. pi. of 
Jnvil, time, and so meaning at times. 

2. Lozvly Shepheards weeds. — A reference to "The Shepherd's Calendar," 
published in 1579. See sketch of Spenser. — J^Fi",?^/^ = garments. A. S. 
waed, garment. Now used chiefly in the phrase, " a widow's weeds." 

4. Oaten reeds. — The musical instrument, made of the hollow joint of 
oat straw, which the poet employed as " lowly shepherd." 

7. Areeds = advises, commands. A. S. araedan^ to tell, speak. 

8. 7"f blazon broade = to proclaim abroad. 

II. I. O holy Virgin^ chief e of nyne. — Clio, first of the nine Muses. 
She presided over history and epic poetry. 

2. Thy -cveaker novice = thy too weak novice. A Latinism not infre- 
quent in Spenser. 

3. Scryne = a case or chest for keeping books. A. S. serin, Lat. serin- 
inm, a chest. Mod. Eng. shrine, a place in which sacred things are 
deposited. 

5. Tanaqiiill, an ancient British princess, here intended to represent 
Queen Elizabeth. 

6. Briton Prince = King Arthur. 

III. I. Dreaded impe of highest Jove ^^ Cmpid or Love; in mythology 
sometimes represented as the son of Jupiter and Venus. Jjnpe = scion or 
offspring; formerly used in a good sense. 

3. Rove = to shoot an arrow, not point blank, but with an elevation. 
5. Heben^ of ebony wood, ebon; from the Hebrew hobnim, ebony 
wood, through Or., Lat., and Fr. From Heb. eben, a stone. 

7. Mart = Mars, the god of war. 

IV. 3. Great ladie ^=^ Queen Elizabeth, Two years after the defeat of 
the Armada, she deserved this title; but as much can hardly be said of the 
appellation " goddesse heavenly bright," as the Queen was in her fifty-seventh 
year. But such was the abject flattery of the age. 



126 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

5. Eyne = eyes. Written also eyen; both are old plu. forms. A. S. 
eage, plu. eagan. 

7. Type of thine = Una, or Truth. 

8. Argument == suh]ect-msitter; affl-icted — \o^\y, humble; ^///f = pen. 
The whole line may be rendered, The subject-matter of my loivly pen. 

9. Dread = object of reverence. 

Canto I. 

1. I. A gentle Knights the Knight of the Red Cross, representing 
Holiness, and also the model Englishman. See remarks on the " Faery 
Queene." — Pricking = to ride or spur on quickly. 

2. Ycladd = Y>^?>\. par. of clad. K stands for the A. S. prefix ^<', affixed 
to any part of the verb, but especially to the past par. Cf. Ger. ge, prefix of 
the past par. Of very frequent occurrence in Spenser. — Mightie armes = the 
Christian armor described in the last chapter of Ephesians. See introductory 
remarks. 

5. Yet armes, etc. — See- introductory remarks. The knight had hitherto 
been " a tall clownish young man." 

8. Jolly = handsome; Yx.joli, gay, pretty. 

9. Giusts == jousts, tilts, or encounters on horseback at tournaments. 
O. Yx. Joster, Y2X. juxtare, to approach. Yxoxwjuxta, near. 

II. I. Bloodie ^^ red. 

4. And dead, as living ever, etc. — A reference to Rev. i. 18. " I am 
he that liveth, and was dead; and, behold, I am alive for evermore." 

8. Cheere — face,* countenance. O. Fr. chiere, Lat. cara, face, Gr. 
kara, the head. 

9. Ydrad = past par. of dread. See Ycladd, stanza i., line 2. 

III. 2. Gloriaiia = The Faery Queene, who " stands for the glory of 
God in general, and for Queen Elizabeth in particular." See introductory 
remarks. 

6. Earne — yccixn. A. S. gy man, to yeaxn; from ^<?£'r;7, desirous. 

9. His foe, a dragon = Satan, or the powers of evil, in general, and the 
Papacy in particular. 

IV. I. Lovely ladie = Una, or Truth, in general, and the Protestant 
Church in particular. See introduction. — Faire — fairly, the e being an ad- 
verbial termination. 

3. Yet she much whiter. — Hallam criticises this as absurd, (Lit. of 
Europe, Vol. I. p. 354) referring it to Una's outward appearance, and not, 
as Spenser intended, to her inward purity. 

4. ^/ ;///'/£'<'/= plaited or folded like the white cloth worn by nuns 
around the neck. 



NOTES TO THE FAERY QUEENE. 12/ 

5. Stole = a long robe. A. S. s/o/c= Lat. s/o/a = Gr. s/o/e, a robe. 

8. St'd'/J/ed = it seemed. Spenser often omits the subject with imper- 
sonal verbs. 

9. Lac/ = led. A. S. laedan. 

V. 3. From royall lynage. — Una, Truth, or the Protestant Church, 
traces her lineage, not from the Papacy, but from the Church Universal. 

8. Forwasfed — utterly wasted. For (Ger. vei-) is an A. S. prefix, 
generally with the sense of loss or destruction, but frequently also, as here, 
intejisive. 

VI. I. A divarfe. — The significance of the dwarf is doubtful; but 
probably he is intended to represent /rw^Av/ir^, as he bears the " bag of need- 
ments at his backe." 

5. Siiddeiiie = suddenly. See note stanza iv., line i. » 

7. Lemaii = a sweetheart, or one loved, of either sex. A. S. leof, dear, 
and mann, a person. 

8. 7^0 shroiud = to take shelter. 

VII. 2. A shadie grove = the wood of Error, at first enchanting, but 
at last leading astray. 

VIII. 6. Sayling pine. — A reference to its use for masts of sailing ships. 
7. The vine-propp elm. — In Italy the elm was anciently used to prop 

or support the vine. 

9. The cypresse funerall. — The cypress was anciently used to adorn 
tombs, and hence came to be an emblem of mourning. 

IX. 2. TJie Jirre that weepetli = that distilleth resin. 

3. The loillow = the badge of deserted lovers. 

4. The eugh, obedient, etc. — A reference to the fact that bows were made 
of the yew. 

5. The sallow = a kind of willow. 

6. The mirrhe S7i.<eete-bleeding, etc. — The myrrh, which has a bitter 
taste, exudes a sweet-smelling gum. 

7. The warlike beech. — So called because suitable for warlike arms, or 
because used by the ancients for war -chariots. 

9. The carrier holme = evergreen oak, good for carving. " Every one 
knows," says Hallam, "that a natural forest never contains such a variety of 
species; nor, indeed, could such a medley as Spenser, treading in the steps of 
Ovid, has brought from all soils and climates, have existed long if planted by 
the hands of man." 

X. 3. IVeening ^thinking. A. S. 7i)enan, to imagine, hope; from. 
tven, expectation, hope. 

7. Doubt = fear. This was the common meaning in Middle English. 
Fr. douter, Lat. dubitare, to doubt. 

XI. 4. Ajtd like to lead the labyrinth about = and likely to lead out 



128 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

of the labyrinth. — About = A. S. abiitau, for oiibiitan = on + be -\- aUin, on 
by the outside. 

5. Tract = track, path. 

8. Eftsoones = soon after, immediately. A. S. eftsone. 

XII. 7. Shame were to revoke = it were shame to recall. 

XIII. 4. Ill the gate = in the way. 

7. Does. — A singular for a plural verb; a not infrequent solecism in 
Spenser's time. 

8. Read ^ advise. A.S. raedan, to advise. Cf. stanza i. line 7. 

XIV. I. G?-eedy hardijnejit = \\?ixdL\\ioodL, or intrepidity, eager for ad- 
venture. 

7. Displaide = unfolded. O. Fr. despleier = Lat. dis, apart, ■s.yv^ plicare. 
to fc^ld. 

9. Eull of vile disdaijie = full of vileness exciting disdain. 

XV. 3. ^^«^///(?j = bends, folds. 

8. Uncouth = unknown, strange. A. S. nn, not, and cuth, known, past 
par. of cnnnan. 

XVI. I. Upstart = upstarted. 

4. ]Vithout entraile = without fold or entanglement. 

6. Armed to point — armed at every point, completely. 

7. Bale — evil, destruction. A. S. be a Ik, disaster, destruction. 

XVII. I. Elfe = the knight, so called because coming from faiiyland. 
3. Z'r^^r/;^;/^/ = trenchant, cutting. Fr. trencher, to cut. The and vi 

an old participial form. 

7. Threatning = brandishing. 

8. Enhaunst = raised, lifted up. 

XVIII. I. Dmt = h\o\y. A. S. dvnt, blow. 

5. IVio = then. A. S. tha. 

6. Traine = tail. Fr. trai?!. a tail. 

9. Traine = snare. Fr. traine. From Lat. trahere, to draw. 

XIX. 6. His ga// did grate = his anger stined. The gall was anciently 
supposed to be the seat of anger. 

8. Gorge = throat. Fr. gorge, throat. 

XX. 3. C^M^/^ = mouthfuls, little lumps. O. Fr. gobet, a morsel of 
food; from gob, a gulp, with diminutive sufHx et. 

6. Eidl of bookes and papers. — A reference no doubt to the numerous 
scurrilous attacks by Roman Catholic writers upon Queen Elizabeth and 
. Protestantism. 

9. Parbreake = vomit. This stanza is to be contemplated only with 
averted face ! 

XXI. 5. 7"^ (77'^ A' = to fall, sink. O. Yx. avaler, hom'Ldi^.. ad vallefn, 
to the valley, downward. Cf. avalanche. 



NOTES TO THE FAERY QUEENE. 1 29 

7. Ten thotisa7id kindes of creatures. This was commonly believed by 
the writers of Spenser's day. 

9. Reed = perceive, discover. See stanza xiii., line 8. 

XXII. 3. Ne = nor. 

5. Sinke — a receptable for filth. 

XXIII. 2. Phcebtis = the sun. — To zvelke = to fade, to grow dim. 

7. Noyance = annoyance. O. Fr. anoi = Lat. in odio, in hatred. 

XXIV. I. 7// ^^5/^././ = badly situated. 

5. Lin = cease, A. S. linnan, to cease. 

8. Raft — reft; preterit of reave. A. S. reofan, to deprive. 

XXVI. 2. Ivipes. See stanza iii., line i. 

7. Her life the which them nurst. The which refers to her. In 
Spenser's day which was often used for who; as "Our Father which art in 
heaven." 

9. Should contend =^ was to contend, or should have contended. 

XXVII. I. C^az^wj/ = happened. 

3. Borne tinder happie starre. A reference to astrology, or the belief 
in the influence of the stars upon the destiny of man. 

• 5. Armory = armor. See introduction. 
9. That like succeed it may = that like victories may succeed or follow it. 

XXVIII. 2. To ivend = to go. A. S. wendan, to go. Of special 
interest as supplying the preterit of to go. 

4. iVe = nor. 

7. PFith God to fretid = With God for friend. 

XXIX. 2. An aged sire = Archimago, or Hypocrisy. 

XXX. I. Touting = bowing. A. S. lutan, to stoop. 
2. Quite = to requite, to satisfy a claim. 

6. Silly =^ simple, harmless. "The word has much changed its mean- 
ing," says Skeat. "It meant tijnely ; then lucky, happy, blessed, innocent, 
simple, foolish. ^^ A. S. saelig, happy, prosperous. Cf. Ger. selig. 

7. Bidding his beades — saying, or praying his prayers. Beade = prayer; 
A. S. bed, a prayer, from A. S. biddan, to pray. Cf. Ger. Gebet. 

9. Sits not = it sits not, is not becoming. Cf. Fr. il sied, it is becom- 
ing. — To mell = to meddle, interfere with. O. Fr. metier, mesler, from 
Lat. misculare, to mix. 

XXXII. 3. Thorough = through. A. S. tlmrh. Cf. Ger. durch. 

5. IFote = know. A. S. witan, to know. 

6. Forwearied — thoroughly weary. See stanza v., line 8. 

9. Doth baite = doth feed. Literally bait = to make to bite. To bait 
a bear is to make the dogs bite him; to bait a horse is to make him eat. 

XXXIII. 7. In — inn. A. S. ifin, a lodging. 

XXXIV. 4. A little wyde = a little apart. 



130 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

5. Edifyde = built. O. Fr. edifier, Lat. irdijicarc^ to build, = cedes, a 
building, and facer e, to make. 

6. Wont = was wont. Wont is properly a past par. of zi'ci;;, to dwell, 
to be used to. 

XXXV. 9. Ave-AIajy = Ave Maria, an invocation to the Virgin Marj'. 

XXXVI. 2. Afid the sad humors etc. = the sweet " slombring deaw," 
cast on them by Morpheus, the god of sleep and dreams. 

5. Riddes = conducts, removes. A. S. hredan, to deliver. 

XXXVII. 4. Blacke Plutoes griesly Da??ie. Pluto is the god of the 
infernal regions, or realms of darkness; hence the epithet black. His wife is 
Proserpine, whom Pluto carried off as she was gathering flowers in Sicily. 
As the inflicter of men's curses on the dead, she is called grisly, hideous. 

8. Great Gorgo7t = Not Medusa, a sight of whom turned the beholder 
to stone, but Demo-gorgon, an evil divinity that ruled the spirits of the lower 
world. 

9. Cocytus = A. river of the infernal region, a branch of the Styx. The 
former is known as the river of lamentation, the latter as the river of hate. 
The other tw^o rivers of Hades are Acheron, the river of grief, and Phlege- 
thon, the river of burning. So Milton speaks 

" Of four infernal rivers, that disgorge 

Into the burning lake their baleful streams : 
Abhorred Styx, the flood of deadly hate ; 
Sad Acheron, of sorrow black and deep ; 
Cocytus, named of lamentation loud, 
Heard on the rueful stream ; fierce Plilegethon, 
Whose waves of torrent fire inflame with rage." 

Paradise Lost, ii. 577. 

XXX\"ni. 2. Sprights = spirits. Sprite is the more correct spelling. 
From Fr. esprit, spirit. 

5. Fray = fiighten, terrify. A short form for affray. O. Fr. effraier, 
to frighten, = Low. Lat, exfrigidare. 

XXXIX. I. Spersed= dispersed. Lat. dis, apart, and sparger e, to 
scatter. 

6. Tethys = the wife of Oceanus, and daughter of Uranus and Terra. 

7. Cynthia = the goddess of the moon; called also Diana and Artemis, 
XL. 4. Dogges before them farre doe lye ^^ dogs lie at a distance in 

front of them. 

9. Takes keepe = takes heed or care. 

XLII. 3. J/<??/^/// = might, A. S. mugan, to be able. 

6. That forced ^^ that he forced. 

7. Dryer braine. — Spenser seems to consider a " dry brain " the source 
of troubled dreams. 



NOTES TO THE EAERY QUEENE. 131 

XLIII. 3. Hecate ^=^ an infernal divinity, who at night sends from the 
lower world all kinds of demons and phantoms. 

9. Sleepers sent = sleeper's sensation. 

XLIV. 2. Diverse dreame = a diverting or distracting dream. Lat. 
dis, apart, and vertere, to turn. 

4. Carke = anxiety, care. A. S. earc, care. 

5. Starke = stiff, rigid. A. S. stearc^ strong, stiff. 
9. Afore = before. A. S. onforan, in front, before. 
XLV. 9. Stole = a long robe. See stanza iv., line 5. 
XLVI. 5. Ill sort as = in the manner that. 

6. Borne without her dew = born unnaturally; or, perhaps, without the 
due qualities of a real woman, 

7. Usage sly = sly or artful conduct. 

XLVII. 3. Hardie = strong, brave. Fr. hardi, stout, hold. 
L. I. Uncouth = unknown, strange. See stanza xv., line 8. 
4. Sufferance = moderation. 

6. To prove his sense, and tempt her faigned truth — to test the evidence 
of his senses, and try her professed sincerity. 

8. The = then. See stanza xviii., line 5. — Can = began. — jRuth = 
pity, compassion. 

LI. 4. The dlind god = Cu-pid, the god of love. — A mate = subdue, 
daunt. O. Fr. amatir, from 7nat, weak, dull. 

7. Die = to die. — J^ew = rue, lament. 

LII, I. Your own dear sake, etc. — This is false. See introduction for 
an account of Una's coming to the court of the Faery Queene. 

3. To bereave = to take away, to deprive her of. A. S. be, and reafian, 
to rob. 

9. Frayes = frightens. See stanza xxxviii., line 5. 
LIII. 5. Doubtfull = exciting doubt, suspicions. 

8. Shend = re-prosich, spurn. A. S. scendan, to reproach. — Rew = 
rue, lament. 

LIV. I. It fell not all to ground ^= it was not all lost or thrown away. 

7. Beguiled of her art = craftily deluded out of an opportunity to exer- 
cise her art. 

LV. 5. Irksome spright = wearied spirit. 

8. When he saw, etc., = when the dream saw. The dream is personified. 

9. That fnisformed spright = the feigned Una. » 



132 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



CANTO II. 

1. I. The northern 2vagoner = Bootes, the son of Ceres and lasion, 
who, being plundered of all his possessions by his brother Pluto, invented the 
plough, to which he yoked two oxen, and cultivated the soil to procure subsist- 
ence for himself. As a reward for this discovery, he was translated to heaven 
by his mother, with the plough and yoke of oxen, where he constitutes a con- 
stellation in the northern heavens. The name Bootes means ox-driver, and 
he is here represented as the driver of Charles's Wain or Wagon, one of the 
names of the cluster of seven stars, commonly called the Dipper, in the con- 
stellation of Ursa Major or the Great Bear. 

2. His sevenfold teme = Charles's Wain or Wagon. Wain, A. S. 
waegn, which passed into the form ivaen by the loss of g, just as the A- S. 
regn (Ger. regen~) became r^;? = rain. — Stedfast starre = the Pole star, 
which, not setting in our latitude, " was in ocean waves yet never wet." 

7. Phoebus fiery car re = the sun, which in mythology was regarded as 
the chariot driven daily by the sun-god Phoebus across the sky. 

Ill, IV, V. These stanzas relate a vile imposture practised by Archimago 
on the Red Cross Knight, whereby the latter was led to believe in the wanton 
unfaithfulness of Una. 

VI. 4. Gall = the seat of anger, as was anciently supposed. 

6. Hesperus = the evening star usually; but here evidently the morning 
star. In both cases the planet Venus is meant. 

VII. I. Rosy-fingered Morning. This is a frequent Homeric phrase. 

" Soon as the rosy-finger'd queen appeared, 
Aurora, lovely daughter of the dawn, 
Towards the camp of Greece they took their way, 
And friendly Phoebus gave propitious gales." 

Iliad, Book I., 1. 619. 

2. Aged Tithones = the spouse of Eos, or Morning. According to the 
myth, Eos, in asking immortality for her beloved Tithonus, forgot to ask at 
the same time eternal youth; and hence, in his old age, he became decrepit. 

4. Tilajt = the sun; so called as the offspring of Hyperion, one of the 
Titans. 

5. Drousyhed = drowsyhood or drowsiness. The suffix head and hood, 
as in godhead, manhood, is derived from the A. S. had, state, condition. 

6. Bowre = chamber; often a lady's apartment. A. S. /''//''', a chamber, 
from buan, to build. 

9. Stoivre = peril, disturbance, battle. O. Fr. estur, estor ; Old Norse, 
styrr, stir, tumult, battle. 



NOTES TO THE FAERY QUEENE. 1 33 

VIII. 4. Pricked = stung; agreeing with him. in the preceding line. 

IX. 4. Drift = purpose or object aimed at. 

6. T>o//i make = doth devise or machinate. With the latter make is 
etymologically related. 

X. 4. Frofeus = the " old man of the sea," who tended the seal-flocks 
of Poseidon or Neptune. He had the gift of prophecy, and of endless trans- 
formation. Proteus was very unwilling to prophesy, and tried to escape by 
adopting all manner of shapes and disguises; but if he found his endeavors 
useless, he at length resumed his proper form and spoke unerringly of the 
future. 

6. Fell = fierce, cruel. A. S. fel, fierce, dire. 

9. Alight of magick spell. When Spenser wrote, the belief in magic 
was still strong, and the arts of Archimago were not regarded as impossible. 

XI. I. But now seemde best ■■= but now it seemed best to him. 

6. Discolour d diver sly = variously or diversely colored. 

7. yollj' = handsome. Fr. Joli, pretty. Addrest = prepared, dressed. 
Fr. adresser. 

9. Saint George himself = the patron of chivalry and the tutelary saint 
of England. His origin is obscure, though he was no doubt a real personage. 
At the council of Oxford in 1222, his feast was ordered to be kept as a 
national festival. 

XII. I. 5^;// M? «;// = semblance. Fr. sembler, to seem; from Lat. 
simulare, to assume the appearance of. 

2. The trne Saint George = the Red Cross Knight. See introduction. 
4. fVill — wilfulness; that is, he was governed by the will alone, and 

not, as when Una was with him, by truth. 

8. Sans fo}' = without faith, or faithless. 

XIII. 2. A goodly la dj- = Dxxessa, representing Falsehood in general, 
and the Church of Rome in particular; for which reason she is described as 
"clad in scarlet red," referring to Rev. xvii. 4 — a passage applied to the 
Papacy by many Protestant commentators. 

3. Purjled = embroidered on the edge. O. Fr. foicrfiler, to trim a 
tinsel; irom ponr (h^t. pro) and filer, to twist threads; iromfl, a thread. 

4. Persiaji mitre = a lofty mitre or cap. 

5. Oraches =^ ouches or ornaments; also sockets, in which precious stones 
are set. See Ex. xxviii. 11. 

9. Bosses brave = fair ornaments. Boss = a protuberant ornament on 
any work. 

XIV. 5. Addresse = prepare. See stanza xi., line 7. 

XV. 2. Dispiteous = pitiless, cruel. 
3. Toivards ride = ride towards him. 

8. Astonied = astonished, astounded, stunned. Astonish and astotmd, 



134 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

are corruptions of the older form astouy, which is derived by Skeat from A. S. 
astunicDi, to stun or amaze completely, intimately confused with the O. Fr. 
estonner^ to amaze. 

9. Rebiitte = recoil. Fr. re, back, and bonier, to thrust. 

XVI. 6. j%«^2«^= doubtful, undecided. 
9. Broken reliques = Shattered spears. 

XVII. I. Btife = blow. O. Fr. ht/e, a blow. 

3. Quyteth = requiteth. 

4. Each others equally etc. = each envies the equal valor of the other, 
and seeks with cruel glances to pierce his side armed with iron. For this use 
of "//^^^V," compare Matt, xviii. 25 : "If ye from your hearts forgive not 
every one his brother their trespasses." 

XVIII. 2. The bitter fitt = the bitter throes of death. 

3. IVote = know. A. S. zuat, present tense of witan, to know. 

5. Assured sitt = keep a firm seat in your saddle. 

8. It = the Saracen's sword. 

9. Rtest = preserved. 

XIX. I. IVho = the Red Cross Knight. 

3. Making mark = taking aim. 

7. Griidging ghost did strive = his spirit, unwilling to depart, strove with 
'* the fraile flesh." 

XX. 5. Who = the Red Cross Knight. — Scowre = ride rapidly. O. Fr. 
escurer, to scour; from Lat. ex, used here as intensive prefix, and curare, to 
take care. 

XXI. 3. Silly dame = simple, harmless dame. See Canto I., stanza 
XXX., line 6. ' 

4. Her hnmblesse = her humility. 

7. And said = and he said. 

8. Rueth = grieveth, afflicteth. 

XXII. 4. Before that angry heavens list to lowre = before it pleased 
the angry heavens to lower. List is here impersonal with the dative. A. S. 
lystan, to please. 

8. Daughter of an Emperour. — Duessa, representing the Papacy, here 
traces her descent from the Roman empire. " The Popes at Rome looked on 
themselves (partially at least) as inheritors of the Imperial position." 

XXIII. 2. Onely haire = only heir. 

5. Debonaire = courteous, gracious. O. Fr. de bon aire, of good mien 
or appearance. 

8. Eone = foes. Eone is an old plural. A. S. fan, plu. of ////, foe. 

XXIV. 5. Assaid = a-Hected. O. Fr. essaier, to judge of a thing. 

XXV. 7. Sans Joy — without joy, joyless. 
8. Sans loy = without loy, lawless. 



NOTES TO THE FAERY QUEENE. 1 35 

XXVI. 2. Fidessa. — Duessa assumes this name, which implies truth, 
in order to deceive the Red Cross Knight. 

4. If please = if it please. 

XXVII. 4. Is said — it is said. 

5. Chear = face, countenance. See Canto I., stanza ii., line 8. 

6. Eien = eyes. Written also eyne and eyen ; both are old plural forms. 
A. S. eage, plu. eage?t. — Shauiefast = shamefaced; an absurd modern spell- 
ing, 2& face has nothing to do with it. A. S. scanifaest ; from scanin, shame, 
ViXidfaest, fast, firm. 

9. Dainty niaketJi derth = coyness creates desire. Derth is literally 
dearness; from A. S. deo7-e, dear, with the suffix ///, as in heal-th, ieng-th. 

XXVIII. 8. A'^e wont there soitjid = nor was wont there to sound. 

XXIX. I . Can spie = gan or began to see. 

3. Phoebus = the sun. See stanza ii., line 7. 

6. Mote — might. A. S. ic inot^ I am able. 
9. Tide = time, season. A. S. iid, time. 

XXX. I. Faire seetnely pleasaiince = pleasing and proper courtesy. 

2. Goodly pu7'poses = agreeable conversation. Purposes, from O. Fr. 
piirpos, mod. Fr. propos, talk, discourse. 

XXXI. 8. Astond= astonished. See stanza xv., line 8. — His heare 
did hove = his hair did rise. Hove = heave. 

XXXII. I. Whenas=^^\i^n. 

4. Bespake = spoke. 

5. Limbo =^ the borders of hell. Written also litnbus. See Webster. 
8. Speaches rare = thin-sounding discourse. Lat. rams, thin, rare. 

XXXIII. 3. Fradiibio:^ AoxxhiiwX. Spenser indicates the fate of those 
who waver between truth and falsehood. 

6. Plast = placed. 

7. Boreas = the north wind, 

XXXV. 9. Lyke a faire lady, but did, etc. = like a fair lady, but she 
did hide or cover the foul Duessa. 

XXXVI. I. F'orged beauty = false or counterfeit beauty. — Did take in 
hand =^ did undertake to maintain by the sword. 

7. Dye ofzvar= die or chance of war. 

XXXVII. 3. I cast ^ I resolved or planned. 

4. Whether = which of the two. A. S. hwather, which of two. Cf . 
Matt, xxvii. 21. 

8. Friclissa = fragile, frail. 

XXXVIII. 5. A foggy viist. — The effect of slander in blasting a fair 
reputation is here depicted. The Jesuits slandered Queen Elizabeth for the 
purpose of injuring her influence with the English people. 

9. In place = in the place or on the spot. 



136 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

XXXIX. I, Wight = person, creature. A. S. wiht, creature, person. 
Formerly both masculine and feminine; here it refers to Frgelissa. 

9. Treen mould ^ form of a tree. Trcen is an adj. with the sufifix 11 or 
en^ as in leathern^ wooden. 

XL. 2. Umveeting = unknowing, unwitting. A. S. witan, to know. 

3. Wist = knew. A. S. wiste, past tense of witan, to know. 

4. Everie prime = every spring. It was commonly believed that witches 
had to do penance once a year in some unsightly form. 

7. Origane = an herb used in baths for cutaneous diseases. 
XLII. I. Cheare = face, countenance; as usual in Spenser. 

7. jP?^/z/= fixed, placed. Ci., pitch. 

XLIII. 7. Wonted well =^ wonted or accustomed weal. 

8. Snffi-sed fates ^ etc. = the fates satisfied shall restore us to our former 
shape and condition. 

XLIV. I. Hight^ called. A. S. hatan, to be called. " A most sin- 
gular word, presenting the sole instance in English of z passive verb." Skeat. 
4. Dreriment = sorrow, dreariness. A. S. di-eorig, sad. 
XLV. 2. Unweeting ^=\\.vikxioyN'\x\<g. See stanza xl., line 2. 
6. She tip gan lift ~ she began to uplift. 



i 



i 



FRANCIS BACON. 137 



FRANCIS BACON. 

In this era of great writers, the name of Francis Bacon, 
after those of Shakespeare and Spenser, stands easily first. He 
was great as a lawyer, as a statesman, as a philosopher, as an 
author — great in everything, alas ! but character. Though his 
position in philosophy is still a matter of dispute, there can be 
little doubt that he deserves to rank with Plato and Aristotle, 
who for two thousand years ruled the philosophic world. 

It is claimed by some critics that Bacon's method of philos- 
ophizing is wanting in either novelty or value, and that no in- 
vestigator follows his rules. There is much truth in this claim, 
and yet Bacon's influence in modern science is pre-eminent 
That which has counted for most in his philosophical writings 
is his spirit. In proud recognition of modern ability and 
modern advantages, he threw off the tyranny of the ancients. 
"It would indeed be dishonorable," he says, "to mankind if 
the regions of the material globe, the earth, the sea, the stars, 
should be so prodigiously developed and illustrated in our age, 
and yet the boundaries of the intellectual globe should be con- 
fined to the narrow discoveries of the ancients." 

He looked upon knowledge, not as an end in itself, to be 
enjoyed as a luxury, but as a means of usefulness in the service 
of men. The mission of philosophy is to ameliorate man's 
condition — to increase his power, to multiply his enjoyments, 
and to alleviate his sufferings. He discarded the speculative 
philosophy which seeks to build up a system from the inner 
resources of the mind. However admirable in logical acute- 
ness and consistency, such systems are apt to be without truth 
or utility. "The wit and mind of man," says Bacon, "if it work 
upon matter, which is the contemplation of the creatures of 



138 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

God, worketh according to the stuff, and is limited thereby; but 
if it work upon itself, as the spicier worketh his web, then it is 
endless, and brings forth indeed cobwebs of learning, admi- 
rable for the fineness of thread and work, but of no substance 
or profit." 

He constantly urged an investigation of nature, whereby 
philosophy might be planted on a solid foundation, and receive 
continual accretions of truth. Invesf2gatio?i, experi77ie7it, vtrifica- 
tion — these are characteristic features of the Baconian philos- 
ophy, and the powerful instruments with which modern science 
has achieved its marvellous results. 

Francis Bacon was born in London, Jan. 22, 1561. His 
father. Sir Nicholas Bacon, was a man full of wit and wisdom, 
comprehensive in intellect, retentive to a remarkable degree in 
memory, and so dignified in appearance and bearing that 
Queen Elizabeth was accustomed to say, " My Lord Keeper's 
soul is well lodged." His mother was no less remarkable as a 
woman. She was the daughter of Sir Anthony Cooke, tutor to 
King Edward VL, from whom she received a careful education. 
She was distinguished not only for her womanly and conjugal 
virtues, but also for her learning, having translated a work 
from Italian, and another from Latin. 

Thus Bacon was fortunate in his parents, whose intellectual 
superiority he inherited, and also in the time of his birth, 
"when," as he says, "learning had made her third circuit; 
when the art of printing gave books with a liberal hand to 
men of all fortunes; when the nation had emerged from the 
dark superstitions of popery; when peace throughout all 
Europe permitted the enjoyment of foreign travel and free 
ingress to foreign scholars; and, above all, when a sovereign 
of the highest intellectual attainments, at the same time that 
she encouraged learning and learned men, gave an impulse to 
the arts, and a chivalric and refined tone to the manners of the 
people." 

He was delicate in constitution, but extraordinary in intel- 
lectual power. Son of a Lord Keeper, and nephew of a Secre- 



FRANCIS BACON. 1 39 

tary of State, he was brought up in surroundings that were 
highly favorable to intellectual culture and elegant manners. 
His youthful precocity attracted attention. Queen Elizabeth, 
delighted with his childish wisdom and gravity, playfully called 
him her "Young Lord Keeper." When she asked him one day 
how old he was, with a delicate courtesy beyond his years, he 
replied: "Two years younger than your majesty's happy reign." 
His disposition was reflective and serious; and it is related of 
him that he stole away from his playmates to indulge his spirit 
of investigation. 

At the early age of thirteen he matriculated in Trinity Col- 
lege, Cambridge, and, with rare penetration, soon discovered 
the leading defects in the higher education of the time. The 
principle of authority prevailed in instruction to the suppres- 
sion of free inquiry. The university was engaged, not in 
broadening the field of knowledge by discovery of new truth, 
but in disseminating simply the wisdom of the ancients. Aris- 
totle was dictator, from whose utterances there was no appeal. 
" In the universities," he says, " all things are found opposite 
to the advancement of the sciences ; for the readings and exer- 
cises are here so managed that it cannot easily come into any 
one's mind to think of things out of the common road ; or if, 
here and there, one should venture to use a liberty of judging, 
he can only impose the task upon himself without obtaining 
assistance from his fellows ; and, if he could dispense with this, 
he wall still find his industry and resolution a great hindrance 
to his fortune. For the studies of men in such places are con- 
fined, and pinned down to the writings of certain authors ; from 
which, if any man happens to differ, he is presently repre- 
hended as a disturber and innovator." 

Though meeting with little sympathy in his spirit of free 
investigation. Bacon still followed the bent of his genius. 
While yet a student, he planned the immortal work which 
was to influence the subsequent course of philosophy. His 
opinions of the defects existing in the universities were only 
confirmed by age. Some years after leaving Cambridge he ad- 



I40 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

vocated the establishment of a college which should be de- 
voted to the discovery of new truths — "a living spring to mix 
with the stagnant waters." He complained that there was no 
school for the training of statesmen — a fact that seemed to 
him prejudicial, not only to science, but also to the state — 
and that the weighty affairs of the kingdom were entrusted to 
men whose only qualifications were a "knowledge of Latin and 
Greek, and verbal criticisms upon the dead languages." 

After a residence of three years at the university, he went 
to Paris under the care of the English ambassador at the 
French Court. He was sent on a secret mission to Elizabeth, 
and discharged its duties with such ability as to win the queen's 
approbation. He afterwards travelled in the French prov- 
inces, and met many distinguished men — statesmen, philoso- 
phers, authors — who were impressed by his extraordinary gifts 
and attainments. The death of his father recalled him to 
England in 1579 ; and finding himself without adequate means 
to. lead a life of philosophic investigation, it became necessary 
for him, as he expresses it, "to think how to live, instead of 
living only to think." 

The two roads open to him were law and politics ; and with 
his antecedents hcnaturally inclined to the latter. He applied 
to his uncle. Lord Burleigh, for a position ; but the prime 
minister, fearing, it is said, the abilities of his nephew, used his 
influence to prevent the young applicant from obtaining a 
place of importance and emolument. Thus disappointed in 
his hopes. Bacon was reluctantly obliged to betake himself to 
the law. He gave himself with industry to his calling, and in 
a few years attained distinction for legal knowledge and skill. 
As might naturally be supposed from the philosophic cast of 
his mind, his studies were not confined to precedents and 
authorities, but extended to the universal principles of justice 
and the whole circle of knowledge. In 1590 he was made 
counsel-extraordinary to the queen — a position, it seems, of 
more honor than profit. 

With this appointment began his political career. He 



FRANCIS BACON. I4I 

sought worldly honors and wealth, but chiefly, as there is rea- 
son to believe, in order that he might at last enjoy a compe- 
tency, which would allow him to retire from official cares and 
pursue his philosophical studies without distraction. In 1592 
he was elected a member of Parliament from Middlesex. He 
advocated comprehensive improvements in the law. On one 
occasion he incurred the queen's displeasure by opposing the 
early payment of certain subsidies to which the House had 
consented. When her displeasure was formally communicated 
to him, he calmly replied that " he spoke in discharge of 
his conscience and duty to God, to the queen, and to his 
country." 

His connection with Parliament was characterized by activ- 
ity, and his integrity at this time kept him from sacrificing the 
interests of England at the foot of the throne. As an orator he 
became affluent, weighty, and eloquent. '* No man," says Ben 
Jonson, " ever spake more neatly, more pressly, more weightily, 
or suffered less emptiness, less idleness in what he uttered : no 
member of his speech but consisted of its own graces. His 
hearers could not cough or look aside from him without loss ; 
he commanded when he spoke, and had his judges angry and 
pleased at his devotion. No man had their affections more in 
his power ; the fear of every man that heard him was lest he 
should make an end." 

In 1594 the office of solicitor-general became vacant, and 
Bacon set to work to obtain it. Every influence within his 
reach was brought to bear upon the queen. ■ Lord Essex, the 
favorite of Elizabeth, interested himself especially in his behalf. 
But every effort proved unavailing. Bacon, like Spenser, felt 
the bitterness of seeking preferment at court, and complained 
that he was like a (ihild following a bird which, when almost 
within reach, continually flew farther. " I am weary of it," he 
said, " as also of wearying my friends." 

To assuage his keen disappointment, Essex bestowed upon 
him an estate, valued at eighteen hundred pounds, in the beau- 
tiful village of Twickenham. The earl continued to befriend 



142 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

him through a long period.- When Bacon wished to marry 
Lady Hatton, a woman of large fortune, Essex supported his 
suit with a strong letter to her parents. But in spite of Bacon's 
merit and his noble patron's warmth, the heart of the lady 
remained untouched ; and fortunately for Bacon, as a biogra- 
pher suggestively remarks, she afterwards became the wife of 
his great rival. Sir Edward Coke. 

When, a few years later, Essex, through his imprudence, 
incurred the queen's disfavor, and by his treason forfeited his 
life. Bacon appeared against him. For this act he has been 
severely censured. Macaulay especially, in his famous essay, 
displays the zeal of an advocate in making him appear in a 
bad light, affirming that " he exerted his professional talents to 
shed the earl's blood, and his literary talents to blacken the 
earl's memory." Though it cannot be maintained that Bacon 
acted the part of a high-minded, generous friend, or that his 
course was in any way justifiable, an impartial survey of the 
facts does not justify Macaulay's severity. 

In 1597 Bacon published a collection of ten essays, which 
were afterwards increased to fifty-eight. If he had written 
nothing else, these alone would have entitled him to an honor- 
able place in English literature. Though brief in form, they are 
weighty in thought. The style is clear; and the language, as in 
the essay on " Adversity," often rises into great beauty. They 
were composed, as he tells us, as a recreation from severer 
studies, but contain, nevertheless, the richest results of his 
thinking and experience. They were popular from the time of 
their publication ; they were at once translated into French, 
Italian, and Latin, and no fewer than six editions appeared 
during the author's life. 

Though it is through his other writings — the Novum 
Orgaiium and "The Advancement of Learning" — that he has 
exerted the greatest influence, it is the " Essays " that have 
been most widely read, coming home, as he says, "to men's 
business and bosoms." Archbishop Whately said : " I am old- 
fashioned enough to admire Bacon, whose remarks are taken in 



FRANCIS BACON. 1 43 

and assented to by persons of ordinary capacity, and seem 
nothing very profound ; but when a man comes to reflect and 
observe, and his faculties enlarge, he then sees more in them 
than he did at first, and more still as he advances further ; 
his admiration of Bacon's profundity increasing as he himself 
grows intellectually. Bacon's wisdom is like the seven-league 
boots, which would fit the giant or the dwarf, except only that 
the dwarf cannot take the same stride in them." 

The distinguished Scotch philosopher, Dugald Stewart, 
bears similar testimony, which indeed is confirmed by the judg- 
ment of every competent reader : " The small volume to which 
he has given the title of ' Essays,' the best known and the most 
popular of all his works, is one of those where the superiority 
of his genius appears to the greatest advantage ; the novelty 
and depth of his reflections often receiving a strong relief from 
the triteness of the subject. It may be read from beginning to 
end in a few hours, and yet after the twentieth perusal one 
seldom fails to remark in it something overlooked before. This, 
indeed, is a characteristic of all Bacon's writings, and is only to 
be accounted for by the inexhaustible aliment they furnish to 
our own thoughts, and the sympathetic activity they impart 
to our torpid faculties." 

After the accession of James L in 1603, whose favor he 
made great efforts to placate, Bacon rose rapidly in position 
and honor. That year he was elevated to the order of knight- 
hood, and the following year appointed salaried counsel to the 
king — a mark of favor almost without precedent. In 1613 he 
was advanced to the office of attorney-general. In 1617 he was 
created Lord Keeper of the Great Seal of England — a dignity 
of which he was proud ; and the following year he was made 
Lord High Chancellor, the summit of his ambition and political 
elevation. 

Fond of elegant surroundings, he lived in great state, with 
liveried servants, beautiful mansions, and magnificent gardens. 
He was inconsiderate and lavish in his expenditures ; and while 
laboring with conscientious fidelity to improve the laws of the 



144 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

kingdom and to facilitate the administration of justice, his 
personal character, it must be acknowledged, did not remain 
above suspicion and reproach. He was unduly subservient to 
the king ; and to maintain his outward splendor, he accepted 
presents, if not bribes, from persons interested in his judicial 
decisions. Being tried by Parliament, he made confession to 
twenty-eight charges of corruption, whereupon he was con- 
demned to pay a fine of forty thousand pounds, to be im- 
prisoned in the Tower during the king's pleasure, and to be 
debarred from any office in the state. Thus, in 1621, Bacon fell 
from his high position, ruined in fortune and broken in spirit. 
Though released from the Tower after an imprisonment of two 
days, and relieved also of the payment of the fine, he never re- 
covered from his disgrace. 

It is difficult now to determine the extent of his guilt. It is 
certain that he was not, what Pope pronounced him, " the 
meanest of mankind." The truth probably is that he was 
morally w^eak rather then basely corrupt. Though he received 
presents or bribes, it can hardly be shown that he purposely 
perverted justice. It was not unusual for judges at that day 
to receive presents. There is no sufficient reason to doubt his 
sincerity and justice when he wTote : "For the briberies and 
gifts wherewith I am charged, when the book of hearts shall be 
opened, I hope I shall not be found to have the troubled 
fountain of the corrupt heart, in a depraved habit of taking 
rewards to pervert justice; howsoever I may be frail, and 
partake of the abuses of the time." He was, in some measure, 
a victim of secret enmity and parliamentary clamor ; and in 
his wdll he did wisely to appeal from the prejudice about him to 
the impartial judgment of posterity. "For my name and 
memory," he pathetically writes, "I leave it to men's charitable 
speeches, to foreign nations, and the next ages." 

The colossal cast of Bacon's mind is seen in his great phil- 
osophical scheme entitled the "-/ii stun ratio Magna, or the Great 
Institution of True Philosophy," which embodies his principal 
writings. It was to consist of six parts, the completion of 



FRANCIS BACON. 1 45 

which was necessarily beyond the power of one man or even 
of one age. 

I. Divisions of the Scie?ices. " This part exhibits a sum- 
mary, or universal description, of such science and learning as 
mankind is, up to this time, in possession of." 

II. Novum Orga?ium ; or, Precepts for the I?ite?'pretatio?i of 
Nature. "The object of the second part is the doctrine touch- 
ing a better and more perfect use of reasoning in the investiga- 
tion of things, and the true helps of the understanding ; that it 
may by this means be raised, as far as our human and mortal 
nature will admit, and be enlarged in its powers so as to master 
the arduous and obscure secrets of nature." 

III. Fheiiomeiia of the Universe ; or, Natural and Expe>i- 
viefital History on which to fou?id Philosophy. " The third part 
of our work embraces the phenomena of the universe ; that is 
to say, experience of every kind, and such a natural history as 
can form the foundation of an edifice of philosophy." 

IV. Scale of the Understanding. " The fourth part ... is 
in fact nothing more than a particular and fully developed 
application of the second part." 

V. Precursors or Anticipations of the Second Philosophy. 
" We compose this fifth part of the work of those matters which 
we have either discovered, tried, or added." 

VI. Sound Philosophy, or Active Science. " Lastly, the sixth 
part of our work (to which the rest are subservient and auxili- 
ary) discloses and propounds that philosophy which is reared 
and formed by the legitimate, pure, and strict method of inves- 
tigation previously taught and prepared. But it is both beyond 
our power and expectation to perfect and conclude this last 
part." 

In the first part of this vast scheme Bacon embodied, in a 
revised form, the "Advancement of Learning," his earliest phil- 
osophical work, published in 1605. It made a complete survey 
of the field of learning, for the purpose of indicating what de- 
partments of knowledge had received due attention, and what 
subjects yet needed cultivation. It is a rich mine of wisdom 



146 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

and learning. But the most celebrated part of the Insiau?-atio 
Magjia is the Novu7?i Ofganum, in which Bacon's philosophical 
method is unfolded. It is -WTritten in the form of aphorisms, 
several of which, including the first, are here given as indicat- 
ing the character of the whole work : — 

" I. Man, as the minister and interpreter of nature, does 
and understands as much as his obser^^ations on the order of 
nature, either with regard to things or the mind, permit him, 
and neither knows nor is capable of more. 

" IX. The sole cause and root of almost ever}' defect in the 
sciences is this ; that whilst we falsely admire and extol the 
powers of the human mmd, we do not search for its real 
helps. 

" XIX. There are and can exist but two ways of investigat- 
ing and discovering truth. The one hurries on rapidly from the 
senses and particulars to the most general axioms ; and from 
them as principles and their supposed indisputable truth de- 
rives and discovers the intemiediate axioms. This is the w^ay 
now in use. The other constructs its axioms from the senses 
and particulars, by ascending continually and gradually, till it 
finally arrives at the most general axioms, which is the true but 
unattempted way." ' 

A well-known and valuable portion of the Novum 07ganu7?i 
is the discussion of the influences which warp the human mind 
in the pursuit of truth. These warping mfluences Bacon calls 
idols ; and his exposition of the subject, which cannot be full}- 
inserted here, has never been surpassed in analytical scope and 
power. 

^' XXXIX. Four species of idols beset the human mind; to 
which, for distinction's sake, we have assigned names, calling 
the first, idols of the tribe ; the second, idols of the den ; the 
third, idols of the market ; the fourth, idols of the theatre. 

" XLI. The idols of the tribe are inherent in human nature, 
and the very tribe or race of man. For man's sense is falsely 
asserted to be the standard of things. On the contrar}% all the 
perceptions, both of the senses and the mind, bear reference to 



FRANCIS BACON. 1 47 

man, and not to the universe, and the human mind resembles 
those uneven mirrors, which impart their own properties to dif- 
ferent objects, from which rays are emitted, and distort and 
disfigure them. 

"XLII. The idols of the den are those of each individual. 
For everybody (in addition to the errors common to the race of 
man) has his own individual den or cavern, which intercepts 
and corrupts the light of nature ; either from his own peculiar 
and singular disposition, or from his education and intercourse 
with others, or from his reading, and the authority acquired by 
those whom he reverences and admires, or from the different 
impressions produced on the mind, as it happens to be pre- 
occupied and predisposed, or equable and tranquil, and the 
like ; so that the spirit of man (according to its several dispo- 
sitions) is variable, confused, and, as it were, actuated by 
chance ; and Heraclitus said well that men search for knowl- 
edge in lesser worlds, and not in the greater or common 
world. 

" XLII I. There are also idols formed by the reciprocal inter- 
course and society of man with man, which we call idols of the 
market, from the commerce and association of man with each 
other. For men converse by means of language ; but words 
are formed at the will of the generality ; and there arises from 
a bad and unapt formation of words a wonderful obstruction to 
the mind. Nor can the definitions and explanations, with 
which learned men are wont to guard and protect themselves 
in some instances afford a complete remedy ; words still mani- 
festly force the understanding, throw everything into confusion, 
and lead mankind into vain and innumerable controversies 
and fallacies. 

"XLIV. Lastly, there are idols which have crept into men's 
minds from the various dogmas of peculiar systems of philoso- 
phy, and also from the perverted rules of demonstration, and 
these we denominate idols of the theatre. For we regard all 
the systems of philosophy hitherto received or imagined, as so 
many plays brought out and performed, creating fictitious and 



148 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

theatrical worlds. Nor do we speak only of the present sys- 
tems, or of the philosophy and sects of the ancients, since 
numerous other plays of a similar nature can be still composed 
and made to agree with each other, the causes of the most 
opposite errors being generally the same. Nor, again, do we 
allude merely to general systems, but also to many elements 
and axioms of sciences, which have become inveterate by tradi- 
tion, implicit credence, and neglect. We must, however, dis- 
cuss each species of idols more fully and distinctly, in order to 
guard the human understanding against them." 

However much men may differ in their estimate of Bacon's 
method and position in philosophy, all agree in recognizing his 
intellectual greatness. It would be easy to fill pages with the 
glowing tributes that have been paid him, not only by English, 
but also by French and German writers. Hallam, who is not 
given to inconsiderate panegyric, says: "If we compare what 
may be found in the sixth, seventh, and eighth books De 
Augmentis ; in the Essays, the History of Henry VII., and the 
various short treatises contained in his works on moral and 
political wisdom, and on human nature, from experience of 
which all such wisdom is drawn, with the Rhetoric, Ethics, and 
Politics of Aristotle, or with the historians most celebrated for 
their deep insight into civil society and human character ; with 
Thucidides, Tacitus, Philip de Comines, Machiavel, Davila, 
Hume, we shall, I think, find that one man may almost be com- 
pared with all of these together." 

An able German scholar assigns Bacon a high rank as a 
philosopher and educator because he was "the first to say to 
the learned men who lived and toiled in the languages and 
writings of antiquity, and who were mostly only echoes of the 
old Greeks and Romans, yea, who knew nothing better than 
to be such : ' There is also a present, only open your eyes to 
recognize its splendor. Turn away from the shallow springs 
of traditional natural science, and draw from the unfathomable 
and ever-freshly flowing fountain of creation. Live in nature 
with active senses ; ponder it in your thoughts, and learn to 



FRANCIS BACON. 1 49 

comprehend it, for thus you will be able to control it. Power 
increases with knowledge.' " ^ 

Bacon had unswerving faith in the power of truth, and he 
confidently looked forward to a time when the value of his 
teachings would be recognized. The fulfilment of the follow- 
ing prediction establishes the character and mission of the 
prophet : " I have held up a light in the obscurity of philos- 
ophy," he says, "which will be seen centuries after 1 am dead. 
It will be seen amid the erection of temples, tombs, palaces, 
theatres, bridges, making noble roads, cutting canals, granting 
multitudes of charters and liberties for comfort of decayed 
companies and corporations ; the foundation of colleges and 
lectures for learning and the education of youth ; foundations 
and institutions of orders and fraternities for nobility, enter- 
prise, and obedience; but, above all, the establishing good 
laws for the regulation of the kingdom, and as an example to 
the world." 

1 Raumer, Geschichte der Padagogik. 



150 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



BACON'S ESSAYS. 

OF TRUTH. 



"What is truth ? " ^ said jesting^ Pilate, and would not stay for an 
answer. Certainly there be that ^ delight in giddiness,"* and count 
it a bondage to fix a belief; affecting ^ free-will in thinking, as well as 
in acting. And though the sects of philosophers ^ of that kind be 
gone, yet there remain certain discoursing-^ wits, which are of the 
same veins, though there be not so much blood in them as was in 
those of the ancients. But it is not only the difficulty and labour which 
men take in finding out of truth, nor, again, that, when it is found, 
it imposeth ^ upon men's thoughts, that doth bring lies in favour ; but 
a natural though corrupt love of the lie itself. One of the later schools 
of the Grecians examineth the matter, and is at a stand ^ to think what 
should be in it, that men should love lies, where neither they make 
for pleasure, as with poets, ^° nor for advantage, as with the merchant, 
but for the lie's sake. But I cannot tell : this same truth is a naked 
and open daylight, that doth not show the masques and mummeries 
and triumphs of the world half so stately and daintily " as candle-lights. 
Truth may perhaps come to the price of a pearl, that showeth best by 
day, but it will not rise to the price ^^ of a diamond or carbuncle,'^ 
that showeth best in varied lights. A mixture of a lie doth ever add 
pleasure. Doth any man doubt that, if there were taken out of men's 
minds vain opinions, flattering hopes, false valuations, imaginations as 
one would, and the like, it would leave the minds of a number of men 
poor shrunken things, full of melancholy and indisposition, and un- 
pleasing to themselves? One of the fathers, '^ in great severity, called 
poesy vi7i7im dcEinoimm ,^'^ because it filleth the imagination, and yet 
it is but with the shadow of a lie. But it is not the lie that passeth 
through the mind, but the lie that sinketh in, and settleth in it, that 
doth the hurt, such as we spake of before. But howsoever '^ these 
things are thus in men's depraved judgments and affections, yet truth, 
which only doth judge itself, teacheth, that the inquiry of truth, which 
is the love-making or wooing of it, the knowledge of truth, which is 
the presence of it, and the belief of truth, which is the enjoying of it, 
is the sovereign good of human nature. The first creature '^ of God, 



BACON'S ESSAYS. 151 

in the works of the days, was the hght of the sense ; the last was the 
light of reason ; and His sabbath work ever since is the illumination 
of His Spirit. First, He breathed light upon the face of the matter, 
or chaos ; '^ then He breathed light into the face of man ; and still He 
breatheth and inspireth light into the face of His chosen. The poet 
that beautified the sect,'^ that was otherwise inferior to the rest, saith 
yet excellently well: "It is a pleasure to stand upon the shore, and 
to see ships tossed upon the sea ; a pleasure to stand in the window 
of a castle, and to see a battle, and the adventures "° thereof below : 
but no pleasure is comparable to the standing upon the vantage ground 
of truth," (a hill not to be commanded,^' and where the air is always 
clear and serene,) " and to see the errors and wanderings, and mists 
and tempests, in the vale below : " so ^~ always that this prospect ^^ be 
with pity, and not with swelling or pride. Certainly it is Heaven upon 
Earth to have a man's mind move in charity, rest in Providence, and 
turn upon the poles of truth. 

To pass from theological and philosophical truth to the truth of 
civil business : It will be acknowledged, even by those that practise 
it not, that clear and round ~"^ dealing is the honour of man's nature, 
and that mixture of falsehood is like alloy ^^ in coin of gold and 
silver, which may make the metal work the better, but it embaseth^*^ it. 
For these winding and crooked courses are the goings of the serpent ; 
which goeth basely upon the belly, and not upon the feet. There is 
no vice that doth so cover a man with shame as to be found false and 
perlidious : and therefore Montaigne^'' saith prettily, when he inquired 
the reason why the word of the lie should be such a disgrace and such 
an odious charge : saith he, "If it be well weighed, to say that a man 
lieth, is as much as to say that he is brave towards God, and a covvard 
towards men. For a lie faces God, and shrinks from man." Surely 
the wickedness of falsehood and breach of faith cannot possibly be so 
highly expressed, as in that it shall be the last peal to call the judg- 
ments of God upon the generations of men ; it being foretold that, 
when " Christ cometh," He shall not " find faith upon the Earth." 

OF REVENGE. 

Revenge is a kind of wild justice, which the more Man's nature 
runs to, the more ought law to weed it out : for, as for the first wrong, 
it doth but offend the law, but the revenge of that wrong putteth the 
law out of office. Certainlv, in taking revenge, a man is but even with 



152 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

his enemy, but in passing it over -he is superior; for it is a prince's 
part to pardon: and Solomon, I am sure, saith, "It is the glory of a 
man to pass by an offence."' ^ That which is past is gone and irrev- 
ocable,^ and wise men have enough to do with things present and to 
come ; therefore they do but trifle with themselves that labour in past 
matters. There is no man doth a wrong for the wrong's sake, but 
thereby to purchase himself profit, or pleasure, or honour, or the like; 
therefore why should I be angry with a man for loving himself better 
than me? And if any man should do wrong merely out of ill-nature, 
why, yet it is but like the thorn or briar, which prick and scratch be- 
cause they can do no other. The most tolerable sort of revenge is 
for those wrongs which there is no law to remedy ; but then let a man 
take heed the revenge be such as there is no law to punish, else a 
man's enemy is still beforehand, and it is two for one. Some, when 
they take revenge, are desirous the party should know whence it Com- 
eth : this is the more generous ; for the delight seemeth to be not so 
much in doing the hurt as in making the party repent : but base and 
crafty cowards are like the arrow that flieth in the dark. Cosmus, 
Duke of Florence, 2 had a desperate"^ saying against perfidious or neg- 
lecting^ friends, as if those wrongs were unpardonable. "You shall 
read,'' saith he, " that we are commanded to forgive our enemies; but 
you never read that we are commanded to forgive our friends." But 
yet the spirit of Job was in a better tune : " Shall we,'' saith he, " take 
good at God's hands, and not be content to take evil also?"^ and so 
of friends in a proportion. This is certain, that a man that studieth 
revenge keeps his own wounds green, which otherwise would heal and 
do well. Public revenges'' are for the most part fortunate; as that 
for the death of Caesar ; ^ for the death of Pertinax ; ^ for the death of 
Henry the Third of France; ^° and many more. But in private re- 
venges it is not so ; nay, rather vindictive persons live the life of 
witches ; who, as they are mischievous, so end they unfortunate." 

OF ADVERSITY. 

It was a high speech of Seneca, (after the manner of the Stoics,') 
that " the good things which belong to prosperity are to be wished, 
but the good things that belong to adversity are to be admired," — 
Bona reritDi seaiiidariun optabilia, adversariim niirabilia. Certain])^ 
if miracles be the command over Nature, they appear most in adversity. 
It is yet a higher speech of his than the other, (much too high for a 



BACON'S ESSAYS. 1 53 

heathen,) " It is true greatness to have in one the frailty of a man, 
and the security of a god," — Vere magiuim habere fragilitate)n hovi- 
inis, secH)'itate?n dei. This would have done better in poesy, where 
transcendencies ^ are more allowed ; and the poets indeed have been 
busy with it ; for it is in effect the thing which is figured in that strange 
fiction of the ancient poets, which seemeth not to be without mystery ; ^ 
nay, and to have some approach to the state of a Christian; " that 
Hercules,^ when he went to unbind Prometheus, (by whom human 
nature is represented,) sailed the length of the great ocean in an 
earthen pot or pitcher," lively describing Christian resolution, that 
saileth in the frail bark of the flesh through the waves of the world. 
But, to speak in a mean,^ the virtue of prosperity is temperance, the 
virtue of adversity is fortitude, which in morals is the more heroical 
virtue. Prosperity is the blessing of the Old Testament, adversity 
is the blessing of the New, which carrieth the greater benediction, and 
the clearer revelation of God's favour. Yet, even in the Old Testa- 
ment, if you listen to David's harp, you shall hear as many hearse-like 
airs ^ as carols ; and the pencil of the Holy Ghost hath laboured more 
in describing the afflictions of Job than the felicities of Solomon. 
Prosperity is not without many fears and distastes ; and adversity is 
not without comforts and hopes. We see in needleworks and em- 
broideries, it is more pleasing to have a lively work upon a sad and 
solemn ground, than to have a dark and melancholy work upon a light- 
some ground: judge, therefore, of the pleasure of the heart by the 
pleasure of the eye. Certainly virtue is like precious odours, most 
fragrant when they are incensed,-^ or crushed : for prosperity doth best 
discover vice, but adversity doth best discover virtue. 

OF MARRIAGE AND SINGLE LIFE 

He that hath wife and children hath given hostages to fortune ; for 
they are impediments ' to great enterprises, either of virtue or mis- 
chief. Certainly the best works, and of greatest merit for the pub- 
lic, have proceeded from the unmarried or childless men, which ^ both 
in affection and means have married and endowed the public. Yet 
it were great reason that those that have children should have great- 
est care of future times, unto which they know they must transmit 
their dearest pledges. Some there are who, though they lead a single 
life, yet their thoughts do end with themselves, and account future 
times impertinences ; ^ nay, there are some other that account wife 



154 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

and children but as bills of charges ; ■^ nay, more, there are some 
foolish rich covetous men that take a pride in having no children, 
because ^ they may be thought so much the richer ; for perhaps they 
have heard some talk, '• Such an one is a great rich man,"' and an- 
other except to it, " Yea. but he hath a great charge*^ of children : '" as 
if it were an abatement to his riches. But the most ordinary cause of 
a single life is liberty, especially in certain self-pleasing and humorous '^ 
minds, which are so sensible of every restraint, as they will go near to 
think their girdles and garters to be bonds and shackles. Unmarried 
men are best friends, best masters, best servants ; but not always best 
subjects, for they are light to run away, and almost all fugitives are of 
that condition. A single life doth well with churchmen,'' for charity 
will hardly water the ground where it must first fill a pool.° It is in- 
diflferent for judges and magistrates : for if they be facile and corrupt. 
you shall have a servant five times worse than a wife. For soldiers. I 
find the generals commonly, in their hortative. '° put men in mind of 
their wives and cliildren : and I think the despising of marriage 
amongst the Turks maketh the vulgar soldier more base. Certainly 
wife and children are a kind of discipline of humanity ; and single 
men, though thev be many times more charitable, because their means 
are less exhaust.'^ \"et. on the other side, they are more cruel and hard- 
hearted, (good to make severe inquisitors,) because their tenderness 
is not so oft called upon. Grave natures, led by custom, and therefore 
constant, are commonly lo\"ing husbands, as Avas said of Ulysses, 
l'etula})i suavi p}-fvlulit i))iviortaIitati.^' Chaste women are often 
proud and fro\Aard. as presuming upon tlie merit of their chastity. It 
is one of the best bonds, both of chastity and obedience, in the wife, 
if she think her husband wise, which she will never do if she find him 
jealous. Wives are young men's mistresses, companions for middle 
age, and old men's nurses : so as '^ a man may have a quarrel "^ to 
maiTy when he will : but yet he was reputed one of tlie wise men that 
made answer to the question when a man should marry. '-'A young 
man not yet. an elder man not at all." It is often seen that bad hus- 
bands have very good wives : whether it be that it raiseth the price of 
their husbands' kindness when it comes, or that the wives take a pride 
in their patience : but this never fails, if the bad husbands were of 
their own choosing, against their friends" consent: for then they will 
be sure to make good their own follv. 



BACON'S ESSAYS, I 55 

OF GREAT PLACE. 

Men in great place are thrice servants, — servants of the sovereign 
or State, servants of fame, and servants of business ; so as ' they have 
no freedom, neither in their persons, nor in their actions, nor in their 
times. It is a strange desire to seek power and to lose liberty; or to 
seek power over others, and to lose power over a man's self. The ris- 
mg unto place is laborious, and by pains men come to greater pains ; 
and it is sometimes base, and by indignities^ men come to dignities. 
The standing is slippery, and regress is either a downfall, or at least 
an eclipse, which is a melancholy thing: Cum iion sis qui fueris, 71011 
esse cur velis vivere} Nay, retire men cannot when they would, 
neither will they when it were reason,'* but are impatient of private- 
ness even in age and sickness, which require the shadow ; ^ like old 
townsmen, that will be sitting at their street-door, though thereby they 
offer age to scorn. Certainly great persons had need to borrow other 
men's opinions to think themselves happy; for if they judge by their 
own feeling, they cannot find it : but if they think with themselves 
what other men think of them, and that other men would fain be as 
they are, then they are happy as it were by report, when, perhaps, 
they find the contrary within ; for they are the first that find their own 
griefs, though they be the last that find their own faults. Certainly 
men in great fortunes are strangers to themselves, and while they are 
in the puzzle^ of business they have no time to tend their health either 
of body or mind. //// 'mors gravis incubal, qui not us iiii?iis ouuibus, 
ignotus moritur sibiJ In place there is license to do good or evil, 
whereof the latter is a curse ; for in evil the best condition is not to 
will,^ the second not to can.'' But power to do good is the true and 
lawful end of aspiring; for good thoughts, though God accept them, 
yet towards men are little better than good dreams, except they be put 
in act : and that cannot be without power and place, as the vantage 
and commanding ground. Merit and good works is the end of man's 
motion, and conscience '° of the same is the accomplishment of man's 
rest : for if a man can be partaker of God's theatre," he shall likewise 
be partaker of God's rest : Et coni'ersus Deus ut aspiceret opera, qiice 
fecerunt maims S7icp, vidif quod omnia essent bona nimis ; '^ and then 
the Sabbath. 

In the discharge of thy place set before thee the best examples, for 
imitation is a globe '^ of precepts : and after a time set before thee thine 
own example, and examine thyself strictly whether thou didst not best 



156 EXGLISH LITERATURE. 

at tirst. Neglect not. also, the examples of those that have carried 

themselves ill in the same place : not to set off thyself by taxing their 
memorv. but to direct thyself what to avoid. Reform, therefore, with- 
out braverv '"^ or scandal of former times and persons ; but yet set it 
down to thvself. as well to create good precedents as to follow them. 
Reduce things to the tirst institution, and observe wherein and how 
they have degenerated: but yet ask counsel of both times, — of the 
ancient time what is best, and of the later time what is fittest. Seek 
to make thy course regular, that men may know beforehand what they 
may expect ; but be not too positive and peremptory ; and express 
thyself well when thou digressest from thv rule. Preserve the right of 
thy place, but stir not questions of jurisdiction : and rather assume 
thy right in silence, and de fa:to.^'- than voice '° it with claims and 
challenges. Preserve likewise the rights of inferior places : and think 
it more honour to direct in chief than to be busy in all. Embrace and 
invite helps and ad\"ices touching the execution of thy place ; and do 
not drive away such as bring thee information as meddlers, but accept 
of them in good part. 

The vices of authority are chietiy four. — delays, corruption, rough- 
ness, and facility.'' For delays, give easy access; keep times ap- 
pointed : go through with that which is in hand, and interlace not 
business but of necessity. For corruption, do not only bind thine own 
hands or thy servants", hands from taking, but bind the hands of suitors 
also from ottering: for integrity used doth the one. but integrity pro- 
fessed, and with a manifest detestation of bribery, doth the other; and 
avoid not only the fault, but the suspicion. Whosoever is found vari- 
able, and changeth manifestly without manifest cause, giveth suspicion 
of corruption : therefore alwavs, when thou changest thine opinion or 
course, profess it plainlv. and declare it, together with the reasons that 
move thee to change, and do not think to steal it.'' A servant or a 
favourite, if he be inward.''-' and no other apparent cause of esteem, is 
commonly thought but a by-wa}- to close"'"' corruption. For rough- 
ness, it is a needless cause of discontent : severity breedeth fear, but 
roughness breedeth hate. Even reproofs from authority ought to be 
grave, and not taunting. As for facilitv. it is worse than bribery; for 
bribes come but now and then: but if importunity or idle respects"' 
lead a man. he shall never be without : as Solomon saith. •• To respect 
persons is not good; for such a man will transgress for a piece of 
bi'ead." 

It is most true that was anciently spoken. — "A place showeth the 



BACON'S ESSAYS. I 5/ 

man ; " and it showeth some to the better and some to the worse. 
Omnium consensit capax imperii^ nisi i?nperasset,^^ saith Tacitus of 
Galba ; but of Vespasian he saith, Solus impe?'antium, Vespasiatms 
. miitatns in 7nelitis ; ^^ though the one was meant of sufficiency, the 
other of manners and affection. It is an assured sign of a worthy and 
generous spirit, whom honour amends ; for honour is, or should be, 
the place of virtue; and as in Nature things move violently to their 
place, and calmly in their place, so virtue in ambition is violent, in 
authority settled and calm. All rising to great place is by a winding 
stair; and if there be factions, it is good to side ^^ a man's self whilst 
he is in the rising, and to balance himself when he is placed. Use the 
memory of thy predecessor fairly and tenderly ; for, if thou dost not, 
it is a debt will sure be paid when thou art gone. If thou have col- 
leagues, respect them ; and rather call them when they look not for it, 
than exclude them when they have reason to look to be called. Be 
not too sensible or too remembering of thy place in conversation and 
private answers to suitors ; but let it rather be said " When he sits in 
place, he is another man." 

OF SEEMING WISE. 

It hath been an opinion, that the French are wiser than they seem, 
and the Spaniards seem wiser than they are ; but, howsoever it be be- 
tween nations, certainly it is so between man and man ; for, as the 
apostle saith of godliness, " Having a show of godliness, but denying 
the power thereof; '' ' so certainly there are, in points of wisdom and 
sufficiency,^ that do nothing or little very solemnly; inagno conatu 
nngasJ' It is a ridiculous thing, and fit for a satire, to persons of 
judgment, to see what shifts these formalists have, and what prospec- 
tives'^ to make superficies to seem body, that hath depth and bulk. 
Some are so close and reserved, as ^ they will not show their wares but 
by a dark light, and seem always to keep back somewhat ; and when 
they know within themselves they speak of that they do not well 
know, would nevertheless seem to others to know of that which they 
may not well speak. Some help themselves with countenance and 
gesture, and are wise by signs ; as Cicero saith of Piso, that when he 
answered him he fetched one of bis brows up to his forehead, and 
bent the other down to his chin ; Resp07ides, altera ad front e^n sublato, 
altera ad vicntuni depresso supercilio, crndelitatem tibi na?i placere. ^ 
Some think to bear^ it by speaking a great word, and being peremp- 



158 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

tory, and go on, and take by admittance tliat which they cannot make 
good. Some, wliatsoever is Ijeyond their reach, will seem to despise, 
or make hght of it, as impertinent or curious ;^ and so would have 
their ignorance seem judgment. Some are never without a difiference,*' 
and commonly, by amusing men with a subtilty, blanch '° the matter ; 
of whom A. Gellius saith, Honiineni delinim, qui ve7'bo7'nm mhnUzis 
rernjn frangit ponder a. ^^ Of which kind also Plato, in his Pj-otagoras, 
bringeth in Prodicus in scorn, and maketh him make a speech that 
consisteth of distinctions from the beginning to the end. Generally, 
such men, in all deliberations, find ease to be of the negative side, and 
affect a credit to object and foretell difficulties ; for, when propositions 
are denied, there is an end of them ; but if they be allowed, it requi- 
reth a new work ; which false point of wisdom is the bane of business. 
To conclude, there is no decaying merchant, or inward beggar,'^ hath 
so many tricks to uphold the credit of their wealth as these empty 
persons have to maintain the credit of their sufficiency. Seeming 
wise men may make shift to get opinion ; but let no man choose them 
for employment ; for, certainly, you were better take for business a 
man somewhat absurd than over-formal. 



OF DISCOURSE. 

Some in their di.?course desire rather commendation of wit, in be- 
ing able to hold all arguments, than of judgment, in discerning what is 
true ; as if it were a praise to know what might be said, and not what 
should be thought. Some have certain commonplaces and themes 
wherein they are good, and want variety ; which kind of poverty is for 
the most part tedious, and, when it is once perceived, ridiculous. 
The honourablest part of talk is to give the occasion ; and again to 
moderate and pass to somewhat else ; for then a man leads the dance. 
It is good in discourse, and speech of conversation, to varv, and inter- 
mingle speech of the present occasion with arguments, tales with 
reasons, asking of questions with telling of opinions, and jest with 
earnest ; for it is a dull thing to tire, and, as we say now, to jade any 
thing too far. As for jest, there be certain things which ought to be 
privileged from it, namely, religion, matters of State, great persons, 
any man's present business of importance, and any case that deserveth 
pity ; yet there be some that think their wits have been asleep, except 
they dart out somewhat that is piquant, and to the quick. That is a 



BACON'S ESSAYS. ' 1 59 

vein which would be bridled : Farce, puer, stif/uilis, et fortius iitere 
lor is. ^ And, generally, men ought to find the difference between salt- 
ness and bitterness. Certainly, he that hath a satirical vein, as he 
maketh others afraid of his wit, so he had need be afraid of others' 
memory. He that questioneth much shall learn much, and content 
much, but especially if he apply his questions to the skill of the per- 
sons whom he asketh ; for he shall give them occasion to please them- 
selves in speaking, and himself shall continually gather knowledge : 
but let his questions not be troublesome, for that is fit for a poser ;^ 
and let him be sure to leave other men their turns to speak : nay, if 
there be any that would reign and take up all the time, let him find 
means to take them off, and to bring others on, as musicians use to do 
with those that dance too long galliards.^ If you dissemble some- 
times your knowledge of that "^ you are thought to know, you shall 
be thought, another time, to know that you know not. Speecii of a 
man's self ought to be seldom, and well chosen. I knew one was 
wont to say in scorn, " He must needs be a wise man, he speaks so 
much of himself: " and there is but one case wherein a man may 
commend himself with good grace, and that is in commending virtue 
in another, especially if it be such a virtue whereunto himself pretend- 
eth. Speech of touch ^ toward others should be sparingly used; for 
discourse ought to be as a field, without coming home to any man. 1 
knew two noblemen, of the west part of England, whereof the one 
was given to scoff, but kept ever royal cheer in his house ; the other 
would ask of those that had been at the other's table, "Tell truly, was 
there never a flout or dry blow ^ given ? " To which the guest would 
answer, " Such and such a thing passed." The lord would say, " I 
thought he would mar a good dinner." Discretion of speech is more 
than eloquence ; and to speak agreeably'' to him with whom we deal, 
is more than to speak in good words, or in good order. A good con- 
tinued speech, without a good speech of interlocution, shows slow- 
ness ; and a good reply, or second speech, without a good settled 
speech, showeth shallowness and weakness. As we see in beasts, that 
those that are weakest in the course, are yet nimblest in the turn ; as 
it is betwixt the greyhound and the hare. To use too many circum- 
stances,^ ere one come to the matter, is wearisome ; to use none at all, 
is blunt. 



l6o • EXGLISH LITERATURE. 



OF- RICHES. 



word is better, impedifuefiia j ' for as the baggage is to an army, so is 
riches^ to virtue ; it cannot be spared nor left behind, but it hindereth 
the march ; yea, and the care of it sometimes loseth or disturbeth^ the 
victory. Of great riches there is no real use, except it be in the dis- 
tribution ; the rest is but conceit:"^ so saith Solomon, -'Where much 
is, there are many to consume it ; and ^vhat hath the owner but the 
sight of it with his eyes?"^ The personal fruition^ in any man can- 
not reacli '' to feel great riches : there is a custody of them, or a power 
of dole and donative^ of them, or a fame of them, but no solid use 
to the owner. Do you not see what feigned ^° prices are set upon little 
stones .and rarities? and what works of ostentation are undertaken, 
because " there might seem to be some use of great riches? But then 
you will say, they may be of use to buy men out of dangers or troubles ; 
as Solomon saith, '• Riches are as a stronghold in the imagination of 
the rich man : '" '" but this is excellently expressed, that it is in imagi- 
nation, and not always in fact ; for, certainly, great riches have sold 
more men than they have bought out. Seek not proud ^^ riches, but 
such as thou mayest get justl\-. use soberly, distribute cheerfully, and 
leave contentedly : yet have no abstract ^^ nor friarly '= contempt of 
them ; but distinguish, as Cicero ^^ saith \vell of Rabirius Posthumus,^'^ 
1)1 studio rei a}nplifiQa7idce apparebat., 7ion avariticB p?'CEdam, sed zn- 
sirtunentum bomtati qucey'i.^^ Hearken also to Solomon, and beware 
of hasty gathering of riches: Qui festmat ad divittas, non erit ifi- 
sons.^^ The poets feign, that w'hen Plutus^° (which is riches) is sent 
from Jupiter,-' he limps, and goes slowly ; but when he is sent from 
Pluto,-- he runs, and is swiit of foot ; meaning, that riches gotten by 
good means and just labour pace slowly ; but when they come by the 
death of others, (as by the course of inheritance, testaments, and the 
like.) they come tumblmg upon a man : but it might be applied like- 
wise to Pluto, taking him for the Devil ; for when riches come from the 
Devil, (as by fraud and oppression, and unjust means.) they come upon 
speed.-^ The ways to enrich are many, and most of them foul : parsi- 
mony is one of the best, and yet is not innocent : for it withholdeth 
men from works of liberality and charity. The improvement of the 
ground is the most natural obtaining of riches, for it is our great moth- 
er's blessing, the Earth : but it is slow : and yet, where men of great 
w"ealth do stoop to husbandry, it multiplieth riches exceedingly. I 



\ 



BACON'S ESSAYS. l6l 

knew a nobleman m England that had the greatest audits ^'^ of any 
man ni my time, — a great grazier, a great sheep-master, a great tim- 
berman, a great collier, a great corn-man, a great lead-man, and so of 
iron, and a number of the like points of husbandry ; so as the earth 
seemed a sea to him in respect of the perpetual importation. It was 
truly observed by one, that himself ^^ "came very hardly to a little 
riches, and very easily to great riches ; " for when a man's stock is 
come to that, that he can expect the prime of markets, ^^ and over- 
come "7 those bargains which for their greatness are few men's money, 
and be partner in the industries of younger men, he cannot but increase 
mainly.^^ The gains of ordinary trades and vocations are honest, and 
furthered by two things, chiefly, — by diligence, and by a good name 
for good and fair dealing ; but the gains of bargains are of a more 
doubtful nature, when men shall wait upon others' necessity; broke ^^ 
by servants and instruments to draw them 3° on ; put off others cun- 
ningly that would be better chapmen, 3' and the like practices, which 
are crafty and naught : 2" as for the chopping ^-^ of bargains, when a 
man buys not to hold, but to sell over again, that commonly grindeth 
double, both upon the seller and upon the buyer. Sharings '^'^ do 
greatly enrich, if the hands be well chosen that are trusted. Usury ^5 
is the certainest means of gain, though one of the worst ; as that 
whereby a man doth eat his bread, ui siidore vultus alieiii;^^ and, be- 
sides, doth plough upon Sundays : but yet, certain though it be, it hath 
flaws ; for that the scriveners ^7 and brokers do value ^^ unsound men to 
serve their own turn.-''' The fortune in being the first in an invention, 
or in a privilege, doth cause sometimes a wonderful overgrowth in 
riches, as it was with the first sugar-man "*° in the Canaries : "^' therefore^ 
if a man can play the true logician, to have as well judgment as inven- 
tion, he may do great matters, especially if the times be fit. He that 
resteth upon gains certain shall hardly grow to great riches : and he 
that puts all upon adventures doth oftentimes break and come to pov- 
erty : it is good, therefore, to guard adventures with certainties that 
may uphold losses. Monopolies, and coemption ^^ of wares for re-sale, 
where they are not restrained, are great means to enrich ; especially if 
the garty have intelligence what things are like to come into request, 
and so store himself beforehand. Riches gotten by service, though it 
be of the best rise,^^ yet when they are gotten by flattery, feeding 
humours,"*"* and other servile conditions, they may be placed amongst 
the worst. As for fishing for testaments and executorships, (as Tacitus 
saith of Seneca, Testanienta et orbos taiiqiiani indagine capi,"^^) it is 



1 62 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

yet worse, by how much men submit themselves to meaner persons 
than in service. 

Believe not much them that seem to despise riches, for they de- 
spise them that despair of them ; and none worse '*^ when they come to 
them. Be not penny-wise : ^'^ riches have wings, and sometimes they 
fly away of themselves, sometimes they must be set flying to bring in 
more. Men leave their riches either to their kindred or to the public ; 
and moderate portions prosper best in both. A great state left to an 
heir is as a lure to all the birds of prey round about to seize on him. if 
he be not the better stablished in years and judgment : likewise, glori- 
ous ^"^ gifts and foundations are like sacrifices without salt ; and but the 
painted sepulchres of alms, which soon will putrefy and corrupt in- 
wardly. Therefore measure not thine advancements ^"^ by quantity, 
but frame them by measure : and defer not charities till death ; for, 
certainly, if a man weigh it rightly, he that doth so is rather liberal of 
another man's than of his own. 

OF STUDIES. 

Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability.^ Their 
chief use for delight is in privateness and retiring ;^ for ornament, is in 
discourse ; and for ability, is in the judgment and disposition ^ of busi- 
ness : for expert men can execute, and perhaps judge of particulars, 
one by one ; but the. general counsels, and the plots and marshalling ^ 
of affairs come best from those that are learned. To spend too much 
time in studies, is sloth ; to use them too much for ornament, is affec- 
tation ; to make judgment ^ wholly by their rules, is the humour ^ of a 
scholar : they perfect nature, and are perfected by experience : for 
natural abilities are like natural plants, that need pruning by study ; 
and studies themselves do give forth directions too much at large, 
except they be bounded in by experience. Crafty'' men contemn 
studies, simple men admire them, and wise men use them ; for they 
teach not their own use ; but that is a wisdom without them and above 
them, won by observation. Read not to contradict and confute, nor to 
believe and take for granted, nor to find talk and discourse, but to 
weigh and consider. Some books are to be tasted, others to be swal- 
lowed, and some few to be chewed and digested ; that is, some books 
are to be read only in parts ; others to be read, but not curiously ; ^ 
and some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention. 
Some books also may be read by deputy, and extracts made of them 



BACON'S ESSAYS. 1 63: 

by others ; but that would be only in the less important arguments, 
and the meaner sort of books; else distilled books are, like common 
distilled waters, flashy*^ things. Reading maketh a full man, confer- 
ence '° a ready man, and writing an exact man; and therefore, if a 
man write little, he had need have a great memory ; if he confer little, 
he had need have a present wit ; and if he read little, he had need 
have much cunning, to seem to know that he doth not. Histories 
make men wise; poets witty;" the mathematics subtile; natural 
philosophy deep ; moral, grave ; logic and rhetoric, able to contend : 
Abeunt stiidia in mores :.^^ nay, there is no stond '^ or impediment 
in the wit, but may be wrought out by fit studies : like as diseases of 
the body may have appropriate exercises, — bowling '^ is good for the 
stone and reins, '^ shooting "^ for the lungs and breast, gentle walking 
for the stomach, riding for the head and the like ; — so, if a man's wit 
be wandering,'^ let him study the mathematics, for in demonstrations, 
if his wit be called away never so little, he must begin again ; if his 
wit be not apt to distinguish or find differences, let him study the 
schoolmen,'^ for they are Cytnini scctores ;^'^ if he be not apt to beat 
over^° matters, and to call up one thing to prove and illustrate another, 
let him study the lawyers^ cases : so every defect of the mind may have 
a special receipt. 



164 EXGLISH LITERATURE. 



NOTES TO BACON'S ESSAYS. 

OF TRUTH. 

1. See John xvnii. 38. " Pilate saith unto him, What is truth? " 

2. This was hardly the attitude of the Roman governor. " Any one of 
Bacon's acuteness, or a quarter of it," says Whately, "might easily have 
perceived, had he at all attended to the context of the narrative, that never 
was any one less in 2. jesting vc^oodi than Pilate on this occasion." 

3. That.^-T\x^ antecedent is omitted; \Ui,&i\. persons ox people after 
"be." 

4. 6'zy<3Y«^^j = unsteadiness; want of certainty or of fixed beliefs. 

5. Affecting ^^ ■^vaxxTi^ at; from Lat. ad, to, andyfer^/r, to do, act. 

6. Philosophc7-s of that kind. — A reference probably to Pyrrho and 
Carneades. Pyrrho, a Greek philosopher of the third century B.C., main- 
tained that certaint}' could not be attained in anything; hence he is known 
as the founder of scepticism. Carneades, a philosopher at Cyrene in Africa 
the second century B.C.? held that all the knowledge the human mind is capa- 
ble of attaining is not science but opinion. 

7. Discoiasing =^ ^\%z\xxi\\t, rambling; from Lat. dis., apart, and cuj-- 
rere, to run. 

8. Imposeth =\-3X^'Cq. restraints upon; from Lat. /;/, on, upon, and 
pone7-e, to place. 

9. .-//« ^/c«</ = perplexed. 

TO. Bacon does not make a distinction between /^//^;/ and falsehood. 
Poetry is opposed, not to truth, but to fact. 

11. Daintily = elegantly. 

12. Price = \a.\ne. O. ¥t. pris, 'Lsit. pretium, price. 

13. Carbuncle = a gem of a deep red color. Lat. carbo, a live coal. 

14. Eathers.—T\i\s name is applied to the leading ecclesiastical writers 
of the first five or six centuries after Christ. 

15. Vinian ^^w.(?««;« = the wine of demons. This quotation is from 
Augustine, the greatest of the Latin fathers, who was born in Numidia in 354. 

16. Ho7vsoever = although. 

17. Creature = created thing. 



NOTES TO BACON'S ESSAYS. 1 65 

18. Chaos = the original unorganized condition of matter, out of which 
it was believed the universe was created. 

19. Sec^ = the followers of Epicurus, a Greek philosopher of the fourth 
century B.C., who held that pleasure is the highest good. Though his life was 
blameless, his followers made his philosophy a cloak for luxury and licentious- 
ness. The poet referred to is Lucretius, a Latin author of the first century 
B.C., whose poem De 7\erum Natiira is largely devoted to an exposition 
of the Epicurean philosophy. 

20. Adventures = fortunes, chances. 

21. Commanded = overlooked from some higher hill. 

22. So = provided. 

23. Prospect = view, survey. Lat. pro, before, and specere, to look. 

24. Round = fair, candid, plain. 

25. Alloy = a baser metal mixed with a finer. O. Fr. h loi, according 
to law, used with reference to the mixing of metals in coinage. 

26. Embaseth = debaseth. 

27. Montaigne, a celebrated French essayist of the sixteenth century. 
He died in 1592. 

OF REVENGE. 

1. Prov. xix. II. "The discretion of a man deferreth his anger; and 
it is his glory to pass over a transgression." 

2. Irrevocable = cannot be recalled. Lat. ir (for /;/), not, re, back, 
and vocare, to call. 

3. Cosmo de Medici, born 1 5 19, was chief of the Florentine republic. 
He "possessed the astuteness of character, the love of elegance, and taste 
for literature, but not the frank and generous spirit, that had distinguished his 
great ancestors." 

4. Desperate = exceedingly severe. 

5. N'eglecting = negligent, neglectful. 

6. Job ii. 10. The Authorized Version is slightly different. 

7. Ptiblic revenges = punishments inflicted upon persons guilty of some 
crime against the state. 

8. Julius Csesar, the leading general, statesman, and orator (excepting 
Cicero) of his time, was assassinated in the year 44 B.C. Not one of his 
assassins, it is said, died a natural death. 

9. Pertinax, born 126 A.D., was made emperor of Rome by the assassins 
of his predecessor, Commodus. After a reign of eighty-six days he was put 
to death by the soldiers, who objected to the reforms he proposed to introduce 
in the army. 

10. Henry IH. of France was assassinated in 1589 by Jacques Clement, 



V 



l66 EXGLISH LITERATURE. 

a fanatical Dominicaii friar, who was himself slain oa the 3p<>t by the royal 
guard. 

ri- Witches were supposed to be women who had entered into a com- 
pact with the devil, by whose aid they were enabled to perform extraordinary 
feats, but into whose power they passed entirely at death. " So end they 
unfortunate." 

OF ADVERSITY. 

1. Stoics = followers of Zeno, who taught that men should be free from 
passion, unmoTed by jjoy or grief, and submit without complaint to the un- 
avoidable necessity by which all things seem to be govemed- 

2. Transcendencies = exa^erations. 

3. 3Iystery = secret meaning. 

4. Hercules, the most celebrated of the Grecian heroes, was the ideal 
of human perfection as conceived in the heroic age. With high qualities of 
mind he possessed extraordinary physical strength, which was shown in his 
*' twelve labors." Among his other wonderful achievements he released 
Prometheus, who, for having stolen fire from heaven for mortals, had been 
chained by Jupiter's command to the rocks of Mount Caucasus. 

5. In a mean = with moderation. 

6. Hearse-like airs = funereal tunes. 

7. Incensed = set on fire. L:-:. •■:. :r.. m":.-.. ar.i ::r:;re, to burn, to 
glow. 

OF MARRIAGE AND SINGLE LIFE. 

1. Im^dimenis =^ hindiances. Lat. in, and fcs, pedis, foot. Fre- 
quently used, in the original, to denote baggage^ especially of armies. 

2. iVhich =■ who. Which was formerly used for persons as well as for 
things. " Our Father -which ait in heaven.** Matt. vi. 9. 

3. /»^*^srfj«^/i£Ki = thirjgs irrelevant. This is the original sense. Lat. 
/«, not, and periinere, to pertain to. 

4. Charges = cost, expense. 

5. Because ^= ID. order that, on this account that. Cf. Matt. xx. 31. 
• ■ And the multitude rebuked them, because they should hold their peace.'* 

6. Charge ^^\&aA or burden. Fr. charge, load, burden; Lat. carrus, 
car, wagon. Cf. cargo and caricature. 

7. Humorous = governed by humor or caprice. 

8. Churchman ^= an ecclesiastic or clergyman. 

9. Fill a pool = bear the expenses of a family. 

10. Horfatives = exhortations. Lat. hortari, to excite, exhort. 

11. Exhansi=^ drained, exhausted. Lat. ex, out of, and luxurire, to 
draw, the past part, being exhaustum. 



NOTES TO BACON'S ESSAYS. iGy 

12. "He preferred his aged wife to immortality." Ulysses was ship- 
wrecked on the coast of Ogygia, the island home of the goddess Calypso. 
She detained him eight years, and proposed to confer immortality upon him. 
But with beautiful fidelity the Grecian hero preferred to return to his native 
Ithaca and his wife Penelope. 

13. So as= so that. In Bacon as is frequently used in the sense of i/iat. 

14. Quarrel= cause, reason, excuse. Formerly a not infrequent mean- 
ing. O. Fr. qtierele : Lat. querela, a complaint, from queri, to complain. 

OF GREAT PLACE. 

1. So as = so that. See note 13 of the preceding Essay. 

2. In digfi i /z es = basenesses, meannessess. Lat. ?';/, not, and dignns, 
worthy. 

3. " Since thou art no longer what thou wast, there is no reason why 
thou shouldst wish to live." 

4. Reason = right, reasonable. O. Fr. raison, from Lat. rationem, 
reason. 

5. Shadow =^ xe\.\xexaen\.. 

6. Puzzle = perplexity. 

7. " Death presses heavily upon him who, too well known to all 
others, dies unknown to himself." 

8. To will= to be willing, to desire. Cf. John vii. 17. " If any man 
will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine, whether it be of God." 

9. To can = to be able. 

10. Conscience = consciousness. This is an old meaning. Lat. con, 
together with, and scire, to know. 

11. Theatre = sphere or scheme of operation. An unusual and obsolete 
meaning. 

12. "And God turned to behold the works which his hands had made, 
and he saw that everything was very good." Gen. i. 31. 

13. Globe = body, circle. 

14. Brave)-)' = bravado. Used in this sense also by Milton and Shake- 
speare. 

15. De facto = in fact. 

16. Voice =^ announce, declare. 

17. Facility ^= readiness of compliance, pliability. 

18. Steal it =^ ^o \\. secretly. So in Shakespeare: " 'Twere good, me- 
thinks, to steal our marriage." 

19. In2oar(l= intimate. So Job xix. 19. " All my inivard friends 
abhorred me." 

20. Close = hidden or secret. 



1 68 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

21, AV5;;!'^r/j- ^ considerations, motives 

22. " One whom all would have considered fit for rule, if he had not 
ruled." 

23. "Alone of all the emperors, Vespasian was changed for the better," 

24, To side = to lean to one side. 

OF SEEMING WISE, 

1. 2 Tim. iii. 5, 

2. Sufficiency = ability, full power. So 2 Cor. iii. 5. " Our sufficiency 
is of God." 

3. " Trifles with great effort." 

4. P7'ospectives = perspective glasses. They make things appear differ- 
ent from what they are. 

5. As= that, as often in Bacon. 

6. " With one brow raised to your forehead, the other bent downward 
to your chin, you answer that cruelty does not please you." 

7. To dear = to gain or win. 

8. Impertinent = irrelevant, — Curious = over-nice, 

9. Difference = subtle distinction, 

10. Blanch = avoid, evade. 

11. "A foolish man who fritters away matters by trifling with words." 

12. /«war^/ /;,?^§^^r= a man secretly insolvent. 

OF DISCOURSE. 

1. " Boy, spare the spur, and hold the reins more lightly." Ovid. 

2. Poser ^ a close examiner, Yx. poser, to put a question, 

3. Galliards = a gay, lively dance, much in fashion in Bacon's time, 

4. 77/(7/= what, that which. Frequently so used, Cf, John iii, 11. 
" We speak that we do know," 

5. Speech of touch = speech of particular application, personal hits. 

6. Dry blow = sarcastic remark. 

7. Agreeably = in a manner suited to. 

8. Circumstances = \xmvi\^ox\.2Cw\. particulars. Lat. circum, around, 
and stare, to stand. 

OF RICHES. 

1. Impedimenta — baggage, especially of an army. See notes on " Of 
Marriage and Single Life," 

2. Riches. — This noun is really singular, though commonly used in the 
plural. Fr. richesse. 

3. Z>/^/?^ri^^/// = interferes with, Lat. dis, apart, and turbare, to 
trouble; from turba, disorder, tumult. 



jVOTES to BACON'S ESSAYS. l6^ 

4. C^«rt';V= imagination, fancy. O. Fr. conceit, Y>^%i-p;\.xi. oi cojtcevoi?-; 
Lat. concepius, from con, together, and capcrc, to take, hold. 

5. Eccles. V. II. The language of the Authorized Version is somewhat 
different. 

6. Fruition = enjoyment. Coined as if from frnitio. Lat. fnd, to 
enjoy. 

7. Reach — extend. 

8. Z)(?/t' ^ distribution. A. S. (i^aet, division; it is a doublet of deal. 
Cf. Ger. i/iei/, part. 

9. Do7iative = gift. Lat. donare, to give. 

10. jF^?]^«^^= fictitious. 

11. Because ^^m order that. See note 5 on "Of Marriage and Single 
Life." 

12. Prov. xviii. 11. In the Authorized Version, " The rich man's wealth 
is his strong city." Also Prov. x. 15. 

13. Proud ^^ giving reason or occasion for pride. 

14. Abstract = \\'\\.\\<\xiiw^n from the concrete; not considering the uses 
that may be made of wealth. Lat. al>s, from, and trahere, to draw. 

15. Friarly = like a friar, one of whose vows was poverty. 

16. Cicero, the greatest of Roman orators, was born 106 B.C., and mur- 
dered 43 B.C. 

17. Rabirius Posthumtis, a Roman knight, was accused by the Senate of 
having lent large sums of money to the king of Egypt for unlawful purposes. 
He was defended by Cicero and acquitted. 

18. " In his desire to increase his wealth it was evident that he sought, 
not the gratification of avarice, but the means of doing good." 

19. Prov. xxviii. 20: " He that maketh haste to be rich shall not be 
innocent." 

20. Plutus = the god of riches. 

21. Jupiter =^ the supreme deity of Roman mythology. 

22. Pluto = the god of shades, or of the infernal regions, brother of 
Neptune and Jupiter. 

23. Upon speed = in or with speed. 

24. Audits = rent-roll or account of income. Lat. audire, to hear. 

25. Himself = he \\\ms&\i. 

26. Expect the prime of market = wait for the best markets. So in Heb. 
x. 13. *' Expecting iiW his enemies be made his footstool." 

27. Overcome = come upon, take advantage of. 

28. Mai7ily= greatly. 

29. Broke = to transact business through a broker or middle man. Here 
in the fut. tense with " shall " from the preceding clause understood. 

30. Them = those pressed by necessity. 



170 EXGLISH LITERATURE. 

31. Chapmen — iiadcr<, merchants. A. S. ccap, trade, and tnann^ man. 
Cf. Eng. cheap. 

32. Xaiighl= naughty, bad. 

II. Chcppifig^ bartering, exchanging. Chopping of bargaijis means 
speculating. 

34. Sharing; — partnerships. 

35. Usury = interest; now illegal or exorbitant interest, charged for 
the use of money, Lat. usura, from nti, to use. 

36. *' In the sweat of another's brow." 

37. Scrizeners = scribes, persons who draw up contracts, especially in 
money matters. 

3S. ]'a:iii^^ represented as financially sound. 

39. Turn = convenience, purpose. 

40. Sugar-mail = planter of the sugar-cane. 

41. Canaries ^^ Canary Islands, off the north-west coast of Africa, noted 
in the early part of the sixteenth century for the production of sugar. 

42. Coemption =^ the purchase of the w^hole quantity of any commodity. 
La:, c: , for con, together, and emere, to buy. 

43. Of the best 7-ise= of the best kind or most lucrative sort. 

44. Eeeding humours = indulging caprices or flattering whims. 

45. " \YiUs and childless parents taken as with a net."' 

46. Xone worse =■ none are worse. 

47. Peyiny-u'ise = niggardly when important interests are at stake. 

48. 6^/c'r/t?/fi = ostentatious. 

49. Advancements =t gifts of money or property. 

OF STUDIES. 

1. Ability = power to accomplish things. 

2. Privateness and retiring = privacy and retirement. 

3. Disposition =^ arrangement. Lat. dis, apart, 2,nd ponere, to place. 

4. Plots and marshalling ^ compMcaied plzns and arranging in due 
order. 

5. To make judgment = to judge. 

6. Humour ^ practice or habit. 

7. Crtf/Zv = expert, skilful, practical. 

8. C«r/(i//j7r= carefully, attentively. Lat. rz/'/v?, care. 

9. i7rfj/h' = transitorily bright : showy, but useless. 

10. Conp'erence = conversation, discussion. 

11. JFitty=^ inventive, brilliant. 

12. "Studies pass into manners." 

13. Stand = stop, hesitation. An old form of stand. 



NOTES TO BACON'S ESSAYS. 171 

14. Boivlhig = playing at bowls, a game corresponding to ten-pins. 

15. Stone and 7'eins = gravel and kidneys. The grave/ is a disease pro- 
duced by small calculous concretions in the kidneys and bladder. 

16. Shooting, that is, with bow and arrow. 

17. Wandering = hard to concentrate on a subject. 

18. School r?u'n — the scholars of the Middle Ages, who applied the logic 
of Aristotle to theology. 

19. Cymini sectores = splitters of cummin. 

20. To beat fz'dv-^ to examine thoroughly. 



1 72 ENGLISH LITER A TURE. 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 

If Shakespeare had left an autobiography, we should 
esteem it one of our greatest literary treasures. If some 
Boswell had dogged his footsteps, noted carefully the inci- 
dents of his every-day life, and recorded the sentiments and 
thoughts that dropped spontaneously from his lips, how eagerly 
we should read the book to gain a clearer insight into the great 
master's soul. As it is, we are shut up to very meagre records, 
to names and dates found in business accounts or legal docu- 
ments ; and the greatest genius of all literature is concealed 
behind his Avorks almost in the haze of a myth. We are de- 
pendent, not upon history, but upon fancy, to fill up the measure 
of what must have been an interesting, varied, and bountiful 
life. 

William Shakespeare was born in Stratford-on-Avon, April 
23, 1564, On his father's side, he was of Saxon lineage; on 
his mother's side, he was of Norman descent; and in his char- 
acter the qualities of these two races — Saxon sturdiness and 
Norman versatility — were exquisitely harmonized. His father, 
John Shakespeare, was a glover, wool-dealer, and yeoman, 
who attained prominence in Stratford as an alderman and 
bailiff. He was a man of substantial qualities, and for many 
years lived in easy circumstances; but afterwards, when his son 
was passing into early manhood, he suffered a sad decline in 
fortune. William's mother, Mary Arden, was brought up on a 
landed estate; and besides inheriting from her the finer qual- 
ities of his mind, the future poet probably learned under her 
influence to appreciate the exceeding beauty of gentle and 
tender womanhood. 

His education was received in the free school of Stratford, 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 1 73 

and included, besides the elementary branches of English, the 
rudiments of classical learning — the "small Latin and less 
Greek" which Ben Jonson attributed to him. His acquisitive 
powers were extraordinary; and, as is evident from his works, 
this elementary training, which appears so inadequate, was 
afterwards increased by rich stores of learning and wisdom. 
He exhibits not only a wide general knowledge, but also a 
technical acquaintance with several callings, including law, 
medicine, and divinity. 

In 1582, at the youthful age of eighteen, he married Ann 
Hathaway, who was eight years his senior. Whether the mar- 
riage was a matter of choice or, as some believe, a necessity 
forced upon him, does not clearly appear. His wife, the 
daughter of a substantial yeoman, was not unworthy of him ; 
and the marriage was probably a love-match, which proudly 
disdained the disparity in years. It is assumed by many 
critics that the union was necessarily an unhappy one; but an 
examination of the evidence leads to a different conclusion. 
In his sonnets there are several loving passages that seem to 
refer to his wife ; and as soon as he had acquired wealth in his 
theatrical career in the metropolis, he returned to Stratford 
to spend his last years in the bosom of his family. 

Several years after his marriage, at the age of twenty-two, 
he went to London. There is a tradition that his departure 
from Stratford was the result of a deer-stealing escapade, for 
which he was sharply prosecuted by an irate landlord. Though 
the poaching is probably not a myth, his departure may be sat- 
isfactorily explained on other grounds. Conscious no doubt 
of his native genius, it was but natural for him to seeTc his 
fortune amidst the opportunities afforded in a large city. 

His poetic gifts and his acquaintance with the drama, as 
learned through visiting troupes in his native village, naturally 
drew him to the theatre. He held at first a subordinate posi- 
tion, and worked upwards by degrees. He recast plays and 
performed as an actor, for which his handsome and shapely 
form peculiarly fitted him. "The top of his performance," says 



174 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

an old historian, "was the Ghost in his own Hamlet." His 
progress was rapid, and at the end of six years he had achieved 
no small reputation. His success aroused the envy of some of 
his fellow playwrights ; and Greene, in a scurrilous pamphlet, 
accused him of plagiarism, calling him " an upstart crow beauti- 
fied with our feathers." 

His ability attracted the attention of the court and the 
nobility. To the young Earl of Southampton he dedicated in 
1593 his " Venus and Adonis," which the poet, in a short and 
manly dedicatory letter, styles "the first heir of my invention;" 
and in return he is said to have received from that nobleman 
the princely gift of a thousand pounds. In Spenser's "Colin 
Clout's Come Home Again," we find this reference to Shake- 
speare : — 

" And there, though last not least, is Action; 
A gentler shepherd may nowhere be found; 
Whose muse, full of high thought's invention, 
Doth, like himself, heroically sound." 

His plays delighted Elizabeth, who was a steady patron of 
the drama; and there is a tradition that the queen was so 
pleased with Falstaff in " King Henry the Fourth," that she 
requested the poet to continue the character in another play 
and to portray him in love. The result was "The Merry Wives 
of Windsor." 

Unlike many of his fellow dramatists, Shakespeare avoided 
a life of extravagance and dissipation. He showed that high 
literary genius is not inconsistent with business sagacity. 
Not content with being actor and author, he became a large 
shareholder in the Blackfriars and the Globe, the two leading 
theatres of his day. Wealth accumulated; and with an affec- 
tionate remembrance of his native town, he purchased in 1597 
a handsome residence in Stratford. He continued to make 
judicious investments; and a careful estimate places his income 
in 1608 at about four hundred pounds a year — equivalent to 
$12,000 at the present time. 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 1/5 

We have several pleasing glimpses of his social life in 
London. He had a reputation for civility and honesty; he 
frequented the Mermaid, where he met Ben Jonson and the 
other leading wits of his day. Beaumont probably had him in 
mind when he wrote: — 

" What things have we seen 

Done at the Mermaid ! Heard words that have been 

So nimble, and so full of subtile flame, 

As if that every one from whence they came 

Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, 

And had resolved to live a fool the rest 

Of his dull life." 

The following testimony of the rough, upright Ben Jonson is 
of special value : " I loved the man, and do honor his memory, 
on this side idolatry, as much as any. He was indeed honest, 
and of an open and free nature ; had an excellent phantasy, 
brave notions, and gentle expressions." 

With wealth and genius, it was not unnatural for the poet to 
desire a higher social rank. Accordingly, we find that in 1599, 
no doubt through his influence, a coat-of-arms was granted to 
his father. He grew tired of the actor's profession, chafing 
under its low social standing and its enslaving exactions upon 
his time and person. In one of his sonnets he writes, — 

" Alas ! 'tis true I have gone here and there, 
And made myself a motley to the view; 
Gor'd mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear, 
Made old offences of affections new; 
Most time it is that I have looked on truth 
Askance and strangely." 

It is probable that Shakespeare ceased to be an actor in 
1604, though he continued to write for the stage, and produced 
all his greatest master-pieces after that date. About 161 1 he 
retired to his native town to live in quiet domestic enjoyment. 
How great the contrast with the excitements, labors, and vani- 
ties of his career in London ! The last five years of his life 



1/6 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

were spent in domestic comforts, local interests, the entertain- 
ment of friends, the composition of one or two great dramas, 
with an occasional visit to the scene of his former struggles 
and triumphs. He died April 23, 16 16, on the anniversary of 
his birth, and was buried in the parish church of Stratford. If 
we may credit tradition, he rose from a sick bed to entertain 
Jonson and Drayton, and the convivial excesses of the occasion 
brought on a fatal relapse. His tomb bears the following 
inscription, — 

" Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear, 
To dig the dust enclosed here : 
Blest be the man that spares these stones, 
And curst be he that moves my bones." 

Such are the principal but meagre facts in the outward life 
of this great man. Were this all we know of him, how incom- 
plete and unsatisfactory our knowledge ! But there is another 
life besides the outward and visible one — a life of the soul. It 
is by the aims, thoughts, and feelings of this interior life that 
the character and greatness of a man are to be judged. Out- 
ward circumstances are, in a large measure, fortuitous ; at 
most they but aid or hinder the operations of the spirit within — 
plume or clip its wings. It is when we turn to this interior life 
of Shakespeare, and measure its creations and experiences, that 
we learn his unapproachable greatness. Many other authors 
have surpassed him in the variety and splendor of outward cir- 
cumstances ; many warriors and statesmen and princes have 
been occupied with larger national interests ; but where is the 
man that can compare with him in the richness and extent of 
this life of the soul ? 

There is no class of society, from kings to beggars, from 
queens to hags, with which he has not entered into the closest 
sympathy, thinking their thoughts and speaking their words. 
By his overpowering intuition, he comprehended, in all their 
extent, the various hopes, fears, desires, and passions of the 
human heart ; and, as occasion arose, he gave them the most 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 1/7 

perfect utterance they have ever found. Every age and country 
— early England, mediaeval Italy, ancient Greece and Rome — 
were all seized in their essential features. 

There were no thoughts too high for his strong intellect to 
grasp ; and the great world of nature, with its mysteries, its 
abounding beauty, its subtle harmonies, its deep moral teach- 
ings, he irradiated with the light of his genius. If, as a poet 
has said, "we live in thoughts, not years, in feelings, not in 
figures on the dial," how infinitely rich the quarter of a century 
Shakespeare spent in London ! In comparison with his all- 
embracing experience, the career of an Alexander, or Caesar, or 
Napoleon, with its far-extending ambition and manifold inter- 
ests, loses its towering greatness ; for the English poet lived 
more than they all. 

It is a mistake to suppose that Shakespeare owed every- 
thing to nature, and that in his productions he was guided alone 
by instinct. This view was maintained by his earliest biog- 
rapher, Rowe, who says, '' Art had so little, and nature so large 
a share in what Shakespeare did, that for aught I know the 
performances of his youth were the best." An examination of 
his works in their chronological order shows that his genius 
underwent a process of development, and was perfected by 
study, knowledge, and experience. His earliest dramas, such 
as "Henry VI.," "Love's Labor's Lost," "Comedy of Errors," 
and "The Two Gentlemen of Verona," all of which were com- 
posed prior to 1591, are lacking in the freedom and perfection 
of his later works. They show the influence of the contem- 
porary stage, and declamation often takes the place of genuine 
passion. 

But after this apprentice work, the poet passed into the 
full possession of his powers, and produced, during what may 
be regarded the middle period of his literary career, an uninter- 
rupted succession of master-pieces, among which may be men- 
tioned "The Merchant of Venice," "A Midsummer Night's 
Dream," "Romeo and Juliet," "As You Like It," "Hamlet," 
and most of his English historical plays. All these appeared 



178 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

before 1600. With increasing age and experience, the poet 
passed on to profounder themes. It was during this final stage 
of his development that he gave " King Lear," " Macbeth/' 
and "Othello " to the world, the two former in 1605, and the 
latter in 1609. 

But in one particular his earlier and his later dramas are 
alike. The personality of the poet is concealed in them all. 
He enters into sympathy with all his creations, but he can be 
identified with none. He is greater than any one of them, 
or than all of them combined ; for it is in him that they all 
originated and find their unity. Thus to create and project 
into the world a large number of independent beings is an 
evidence of the highest genius. Byron could not do it ; for 
through all his works, whatever may be the names of his char- 
acters, we recognize the lawless, passionate, misanthropic poet 
himself. The same is true of Goethe and Victor Hugo, who 
embody in their works their didactic principles or their ideal- 
ized experience. Among the world's great wTiters, Shakespeare 
and Homer almost alone are hidden behind their works like a 
mysterious presence. 

Shakespeare possessed a profound knowledge of his art. 
This is obvious botK from Hamlet's famous instruction to the 
players, and from the structure of his dramas. He has been 
criticised for discarding classic rules; but the censure is most 
unjust. Genius has an inalienable right to prescribe its own 
creative forms. He laid aside the hampering models of an- 
tiquity in order to give the world a new and richer dramatic 
form. The simple action of the ancient drama could not be 
adjusted to his great and complex themes. His works possess 
the one great essential characteristic — that of organic unity- 
After Shakespeare had completed his apprenticeship, his 
dramas embody an almost faultless structure; they are not 
pieces of elaborate and elegant patchwork, but of consistent 
and regular growth. We can but wonder at the range and 
power of that intellect which grasped a multitude of characters, 
brought them into contact, carried them through a great variety 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 



79 



of incidents, portrayed with justice and splendor the profound- 
est feelings and thoughts, traced their reciprocal influence, and 
symmetrically conducted the whole to a striking and pre-deter- 
mined conclusion. 

It scarcely detracts from his greatness that, instead of in- 
venting his themes and characters, he borrowed them from 
history and literature. His borrowing was not slavish and 
weak. Whatever materials he appropriated from others, he 
reshaped and glorified; and he is no more to be censured than 
is the sculptor who takes from the stone-cutter the rough mar- 
ble that he afterwards transforms into a Venus de Medici or 
a Greek Slave. His works constitute a world in themselves; 
and with its inhabitants — with Hamlet, Othello, Macbeth, Por- 
tia, Shylock, and many others — we are as well acquainted as 
with the personages of history. 

The poet exhibits an almost perfect acciuaintance with human 
nature. His creations are not personified moral qualities or 
individualized passions, but real persons. They are beings of 
flesh and blood; but by their relations and reciprocal influence 
they are lifted above the dull and commonplace. Shakespeare 
removes the veil that hides from common vision the awful 
significance of human influence, and reveals it in its subtle 
workings and mighty results. He enables us to see, beneath a 
placid or rippling surface, the deep currents that move society. 

As his mode of expression was always suited to his chan- 
ging characters, he exemplified every quality of style in turn. 
His faculties and taste were so exquisitely adjusted, that his 
manner was always in keeping with his matter. He drew with 
equal facility on the Saxon and the Latin elements of our 
language, and attained with both the same incomparable 
results. He had a prodigious faculty for language, surpassing 
in copiousness every other English writer. The only term that 
adequately describes his manner of writing is • Shakespearian 
— a term that comprehends a great deal. It includes vividness 
of imagination, depth of thought, delicacy of feeling, careful- 
ness of observation, discernment of hidden relations, and what- 



I So ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

ever else may be necessary to. clothe thought in expressions of 

supreme litness and beautv. 

Far above everv other writer of ancient or modern times 
Shakespeare \"oices. in its manifold life, the hiunan soul. This 
fact makes his works a storehouse of riches, to which we con- 
stantly turn. Are we oppressed at times with a morbid feeling 
of the emptiness of life.^ How perfectly Shakespeare voices 
oiu" sentiment : — 

" Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player 
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, 
And then is heard no more : it is a tale 

. Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, 
Signifying nothing.'" 

Or again: — 

•' We are such stuff 
As dreams are made of. and our little life 

Is rounded with a sleep." 

If we recognize the fact that somehow there is a mysterious 
power controlling our lives, we are told 

" Thi^re's a divinity that shapes our ends. 
Rough-hew them how we will.*" 

But. as our consciousness tells us, we are not wholly at the 
mercy of this overruling agency : — 

'" Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, 

Which we ascribe to heaven; the fated sky 
Gives us free scope, only doth backward push 
Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull." 

What beautiful expression he gives to the trite observation 
that contentment is better than riches I 

" "Tis better to be lo%^"ly born. 

And range with humble livers in content, 
Than to be perk'd up in glistering grief, 
And wear a crolden sorrow. " ' 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. l8l 

What clear expression he gives to the indistinct feeling of 
beauty that sometimes comes to us in the presence of some 
object in nature ! He surprises its secret, and embodies it in 
an imperishable word: — 

" How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank ! " 

But why multiply illustrations, when they are found on 
almost every page of his works ? 

And what shall be said of Shakespeare's influence ? He so 
entirely eclipsed his contemporary dramatists that their works 
are scarcely read. There are passages in his works that we 
could wish omitted — panderings to the corrupt taste of the 
time. But they are exceptional, and at heart the poet's sym- 
pathy, as in the case of every truly great man, is on the side 
of virtue. His writings, as a whole, carry with them the up- 
lifting power of high thought, noble feeling, and worthy deeds. 

Many of his thoughts and characters pass into the intel- 
lectual life of each succeeding generation. "Hamlet," "The 
Merchant of Venice," and "Romeo and Juliet," are read by 
nearly every young student ; and to have read any one of 
Shakespeare's master-pieces intelligently marks an epoch in 
the intellectual life of youth. But his dramas give pleasure not 
alone to the young. With minds enriched by experience and 
study, we turn, in the midst of active life, to his works for 
recreation and instruction. He but appears greater with our 
enlarged capacity to appreciate him. If he gathered about him 
a circle of cultivated friends and admirers in his life, he has 
shown himself still stronger in death. The circle has widened 
until it comprehends many lands. 

He has exerted a noteworthy influence upon foreign litera- 
ture, especially in Germany and France. Translated into the 
languages of these countries, his works have been extensively 
studied, admired, and imitated. He is lectured on in German 
universities, and some of his ablest critics have been German 
and French. He has stimulated a prodigious amount of intel- 
lectual activity; and his biographers, editors, translators, critics, 



1 82 ■ ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

and commentators are numbered by the hundred. No other 
English author has gathered about him such an array of 
scholarship and literary ability. 

There is no abatement of interest in his works. Societies 
are organized for their systematic study, and periodicals are 
devoted to their illustration. There is no likelihood that he 
will ever be superseded ; as he wrote in the proud presenti- 
ment of genius, — 

" Not marble, nor the gilded monuments 

Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme." 

Future ages will turn to his works as a mirror of nature, 
and find in them the most perfect expression of their deepest 
and most precious experience. It is safe to say that his pro- 
ductions are as imperishable as the English language or the 
English race. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 1 83 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 

DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 

The Duke of Venice. Old Gobbo, father to Launcelot. 

The Prince of Morocco, ^ suitors to Leonardo, servant to Bassanio. 

The Prince of Arragon, ) Portia. Balthasar, ) . . n ^• 

,,-,'. -. ' \ servants to Portia. 

Antonio, a merchant of Venice. Stephano, ) 

Bassanio, his kinsman, suitor likewise to 

Portia. 

Salarino 



Portia, a rich heiress. 
Nerissa, her waiting-maid. 



Salanio, \ friends to Antonio and J=^^'^^' daughter to Shylock. 

Gratiano,J Bassanio. Magnificoes of Venice, Officers of the Court 

Salerio, of Justice, Gaoler, Servants to Portia, 

Lorenzo, m love with Jessica. ^^ ^^^^^ Attendants. 
Shylock, a rich Jew. 

Tubal, a Jew, his friend. Scene: Partly at Venice, and partly at 

Launcelot Gobbo, the clown, servant to Behno7it, the seat of Portia, on the 

Shylock. Co7iti?ient. 

ACT I. 
Scene I. Venice. A street. 

Enter Antonio, Salarino, and Salanio. 

Antonio. In sooth,' I know not why I am so sad : 
It wearies me ; you say it wearies you ; 
But how I caught it, found it, or came by it. 
What stuff "tis made of, whereof it is born, 
I am to learn ; 

And such a want-wit ~ sadness makes of me 
That I have much ado ^ to know myself. 

Salarino. Your mind is tossing on the ocean ; 
There, where your argosies'* with portly sail. 
Like signiors ^ and rich burghers on the flood, 
Or, as it were, the pageants^ of the sea, 
Do overpeer'' the petty traffickers. 
That curtsy to them, do them reverence. 
As they fly by them with their woven wings. 

Salanio. Believe me, sir, had I such venture'^ forth, 
The better part of my affections would 
Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still '^ 
Plucking the grass, to know where sits the wind. 



1 84 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Peering in maps for ports and piers and roads ; ^° 
And every object that might make me fear 
Misfortune to my ventures out of doubt 
Would make me sad, 

Salarino. My v^ind cooling my broth 

Would blow me to an ague, when I thought 
What harm a wind too great at sea might do. 
I should not see the sandy hour-glass run, 
But I should think of shallows and of flats. 
And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand," 
Vailing '^ her high-top lower than her ribs 
To kiss her burial. Should I go to church 
And see the holy edifice of stone, 
And not bethink me straight ^^ of dangerous rocks. 
Which touching but my gentle vessel's side. 
Would scatter all her spices on the stream, 
Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks. 
And, in a word, but even now worth this,^'^ 
And now worth nothing? Shall I have the thought 
To think on this, and shall I lack the thought 
That such a thing bechanced would make me sad ? 
But tell not me ; I know, Antonio 
Is sad to think upon his merchandise. 

Antonio. Believe me, no : I thank my fortune for it. 
My ventures are not in one bottom '^ trusted. 
Nor to one place ; nor is my whole estate 
Upon the fortune of this present year : 
Therefore my merchandise makes me not sad. 

Salarino. Why, then you are in love. 

Antonio. Fie, fie! 

Salarino. Not in love neither? Then let us say you are sad, 
Because you are not merry : and 'twere as easy 
For you to laugh and leap and say you are merry, 
Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus, ^^ 
Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time : 
Some that will evermore peep through their eyes ''' 
And laugh like parrots at a bag-piper, 
And other '^ of such vinegar aspect 
That they'll not show their teeth in way of smile, 
Though Nestor '^ swear the jest be laughable. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 1 85 



Enter BassAxNIO, Lorenzo, and Gratiano. 

Salanio. Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman, 
Gratiano and Lorenzo. Fare ye well : 
We leave you now with better company. 

Salarino. I would have stay'd till I had made you merry, 
If worthier friends had not prevented ^° me. 

Antonio. Your worth is very dear in my regard. 
I take it, your own business calls on you 
And you embrace the occasion to depart. 

Salarino. Good morrow, my good lords. 

Bassanio. Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? say, when ? 
You grow exceeding strange : ^' must it be so? 

Salarino. We'll make our leisures to attend on yours. 

{^Exeunt Salarino ^?/^/ Salanio. 

Lorenzo. My Lord Bassanio, since you have found Antonio, 
We two will leave you : but at dinner-time, 
I pray you, have in mind where we must meet. 

Bassanio. I will not fail you. 

Gratiano. You look not well, Signior Antonio; 
You have too much respect upon ^^ the world : 
They lose it that do buy it with much care : 
Believe me, you are marvellously changed. 

Antonio. I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano : 
A stage where every man must play a part. 
And mine a sad one. 

Gratiano. Let me play the fool : ^^ 

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come. 
And let my liver rather heat with wine 
Than my heart cool with mortifying groans. 
Why should a man, whose blood is warm within. 
Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster? 
Sleep when he wakes and creep into the jaundice 
By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio — 
I love thee, and it is my love that speaks — 
There are a sort of men whose visages 
Do cream and mantle ""^ like a standing pond, 
And do^'S a wilful stillness entertain, 
With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion ^^ 



Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit,^^ 



1 86 ENGLISH LirERATUKE. 

As who should say^^ " I am Sir Oracle. 
And when I ope my lips let no dog bark !"' 

my Antonio. 1 do know of these 
That therefore only are reputed wise 
For saying nothing, who. I am very sure. 

If they should speak, would almost damn those ears 

Wiiich. hearing them, would call their brothers fools. ^^ 

I'll tell thee more of this another time : 

But fish not, with this melancholy bait, 

For this fool gudgeon, 2° this opinion. 

Come, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well awhile : 

ril end my exhortation after dinner. 

Lorenzo. Well, we will leave you then till dinner-time: 

1 must be one of these same dumb wise men. 
For Gratiano never lets me speak. 

Gr.atiano. Weil, keep me company but two years moe,^^ 
Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue. 

AxTOXio. Farewell: Til grow a talker for this gear.^^ 

Gratiaxo. Thanks, i" faith, for silence is only commendable 
In a neat's tongue dried. \^Excu?it Gratiano and Lorenzo. 

Antonio. Is that any thing now? 

Bassanio. Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more 
than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of 
wheat hid in twj. bushels of chatt : you shall seek all day ere you 
lind them, and when you have them, they are not worth the 
search. 

Antonio. Well, tell me now what lady is the same 
To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage. 
That you to-day promised to tell me of? 

Bassanio. Tis not unknoAvn to you. Antonio. 
How much I have disabled mine estate. 
By something 23 showing a more swelling port ^"^ 
Than my faint means would grant continuance : 
Xor do I now make moan to be abridged 
From such a noble rate : -''- but mv chief care 
Is to come fairly off from the great debts 
Wherein m}- time something too prodigal 
Hath left me gag'd.-''^ To you. Antonio, 
I owe the most, in money and in love. 
And from vour love I have a warrantv 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 1 8/ 

To unburden all my plots and purposes 
How to get dear of all the debts I owe. 

Antonio. I pray you. good Bassanio, let me know it; 
And if it stand, as you yourself still ^-^ do. 
Within the eye of honour, ^^ be assured, 
My purse, my person, my extremest means, 
Lie all unlocked to your occasions. 

Bassanio. In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft 
I shot his fellow of the self-same flight ^"^ 
The self-same way, with more advised "^^ watch, 
To find the other forth, ^' and by adventuring both 
I oft found both : I urge this childhood proof, "^^ 
Because what follows is pure innocence. 
I owe you much, and like a wilful "^^ youth, 
That which I owe is lost ; but if you please 
To shoot another arrow that self way ^^ 
Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt, 
As I will watch the aim, or to find both 
Or bring your latter hazard back again 
And thankfully rest debtor for the first. 

Antonio. You know me well, and herein spend but time 
To wind about my love with circumstance ; ^'^ 
And out of doubt you do me now more wrong 
In making question of my uttermost "^^^ 
Than if you had made waste of all I have : 
Then do but say to me what I should do 
That in your knowledge may by me be done. 
And I am prest '^'' unto it : therefore speak. 

Bassanio. In Belmont is a lady richly left ; ^^ 
And she is fair and, fairer than that word. 
Of wondrous virtues : sometimes ^"^ from her eyes 
I did receive fair speechless messages : 
Her name is Portia, nothing undervalued 5° 
To Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia: 5' 
Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth, 
For the four winds blow in from every coast 
Renowned suitors, and her sunny locks 
Hang on her temples like a golden fleece : 
Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos' strand,''^ 
And many Jasons come in quest of her. 



1 88 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

my Antonio, had I but the means 

To hold a rival place with one of them,^^ 

1 have a mind presages me such thrift, ^"^ 
That I should questionless be fortunate ! 

Antonio. Thou know"st that all my fortunes are at sea; 
Neither have I money nor commodity ^^ 
To raise a present sum : therefore go forth ; 
Try what my credit can in Venice do ; 
That shall be rack'd, even to the uttermost, 
To furnish thee to Belmont, to fair Portia. 
Go, presently ^^ inquire, and so will I, 
Where money is, and 1 no question make 
To have it of my trust or for my sake.^^ \Exeinit. 

Scene II. Bebnoiit. A roojn iii Portia's house. 
Enter Portia ajid Nerissa. 

Portia. By my troth, ^ Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this 
great world. 

Nerissa. You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in 
the same abundance as your good fortunes are : and yet, for aught I 
see, they are as sick that surfeit with too much as they that starve with 
nothing. It is no mfean hapi3iness therefore, to be seated in the mean : 
superfluity comes sooner by w^hite hairs, but competency lives longer. 

Portia. Good sentences and well pronounced. 

Nerissa. They would be better, if well followed. 

Portia. If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, 
chapels had been churches and poor men's cottages princes' palaces. 
It is a good divine that follows his own instructions : I can easier teach 
twenty what were good to be done, than be one of the twenty to 
follow mine own teaching. The brain may devise laws for the blood, 
but a hot temper leaps o'er a cold decree : such a hare is madness the 
youth, to skip o'er the meshes of good counsel the cripple. But this 
reasoning is not in the fashion to choose me a husband. O me, the 
word " choose !" I may neither choose whom I would nor refuse whom 
I dislike ; so is the will of a living daughter curbed by the will of a 
dead father. Is it not hard, Nerissa, that I cannot choose one nor 
refuse none ? ^ 

Nerissa. Your father was ever virtuous : and holv men at their 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 1 89 

death have good inspirations : therefore the lottery, that he hath de- 
vised in these three chests of gold, silver and lead, whereof who 
chooses his meaning chooses you, will, no doubt, never be chosen by 
any rightly but one who shall rightly love. But what warmth is there 
in your affection towards any of these princely suitors that are already 
come ? 

Portia. I pray thee, over-name them ; and as thou namest them, 
I will describe them; and, according to my description, level at^ my 
affection. 

Nerissa. First, there is the Neapolitan prince. 

Portia. Ay, that's a colt "> indeed, for he doth nothing but talk 
of his horse ; and he makes it a great appropriation ^ to his own good 
parts, that he can shoe him himself. 

Nerissa. Then there is the County Palatine.^ 

Portia. He doth nothing but frown, as who should say " If you 
will not have me, choose : "" he hears merry tales and smiles not : I 
fear he will prove the weeping philosopher'' when he grows old, being 
so full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had rather be married 
to a death's head with a bone in his mouth than to either of these. 
God defend me from these two ! 

Nerissa. How say you by ^ the French lord. Monsieur Le Bon? 

Portia. God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man. In 
truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker : but, he ! why, he hath a horse 
better than the Neapolitan's, a better bad habit of frowning than the 
Count Palatine ; he is every man in no man ; if a throstle sing, he falls 
straight a capering ; he will fence with his own shadow : if I should 
marry him, 1 should marry twenty husbands. If he would despise me, 
I would forgive him, for if he love me to madness, I shall never requite 
him. 

Nerissa. What say you then to Falconbridge, the young baron 
of England .? 

Portia. You know I say nothing to^ him, for he understands 
not me, nor I him : he hath neither Latin, French, nor Italian, and you 
will come into the court and swear that I have a poor pennyworth in 
the English. He is a proper ^° man's picture, but, alas, who can con- 
verse with a dumbshow? How oddly he is suited!'' I think he 
bought his doublet '^ in Italy, his round hose '^ in France, his bonnet '^ 
in Germany, and his behaviour everywhere. 

Nerissa. What think you of the Scottish lord, his neighbour.? 

Portia. That he hath a neig^hbourlv charitv in him, for he bor- 



190 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

rowed a box of the ear of the. Englishman, and swore he would pay 
him again when he was able : I think the Frenchman became his surety 
and sealed under '^ for another. 

Nerissa. How like you the young German, the Duke of Saxony's 
nephew ? 

Portia. Very vilely in the morning, when he is sober, and most 
vilely in the afternoon, when he is drunk : w^hen he is best he is a little 
w^orse than a man, and when he is worst, he is little better than a beast : 
an ^^ the worst fall that ever fell, I hope I shall make shift to go with- 
out him. 

Nerissa. If he should offer to choose, and choose the right 
casket, you should '" refuse to perform your father's will, if you should 
refuse to accept him. 

Portia. Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee, set a deep 
glass of Rhenish wine on the contrary '^ casket, for if the devil be 
within and that temptation without, I know he will choose it. I will 
do any thing, Nerissa, ere V\\ be married to a sponge. 

Nerissa. You need not fear, lady, the having any of these lords : 
they have acquainted me with their determinations ; which is indeed 
to return to their home and to trouble you with no more suit, unless 
you may be won by some other sort '^ than your father's imposition ^° 
depending on the caskets. 

Portia. If I live to be as old as Sibylla,^' I will die as chaste as 
Diana, unless I be obtained by the manner of my father's will. I am 
glad this parcel of wooers are so reasonable, for there is not one among 
them but I dote on his very absence, and I pray God grant them a 
fair departure. 

Nerissa. Do you not remember, lady, in your father's time, a 
Venetian, a scholar and a soldier, that came hither in company of the 
Marquis of Montferrat? 

Portia. Yes, yes. it was Bassanio ; as I think, he was so called. 

Nerissa. True, madam : he, of all the men that ever my fooli.^h 
eyes looked upon, was the best deserving a fair lady. 

Portia. I remember him well, and I remember him w^orthy of 
thy praise. 

Enter a Seyvino-man. 
How now I what news? 

Servant. The four -- strangers seek for you, madam, to take their 
leave: and there is a forerunner come from a fifth, the Prince of Mo- 
rocco, who brings word the prince his master will be here to-night. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. I9I 

Portia. If I could bid the fifth welcome with so good a heart as 
I can bid the other four farewell, I should be glad of his approach : if 
he have the condition ^^ of a saint and the complexion of a devil, I had 
rather he should shrive ^^ me than wive me. 
Come, Nerissa. Sirrah, go before. 

Whiles we shut the gates upon one wooer, another knocks at the door. 

\_Exeiint. 
Scene III. Venice. A public place. 

Enter liASSANlO and Shylock. 

Shylock. Three thousand ducats ; ' well. 

Bassanio. Ay, sir, for three months. 

Shylock. For three months ; well. 

Bas.sanio. For the which, as I told you, Antonio shall be bound. 

Sh.ylock. Antonio shall become bound ; well. 

Ba.ssanio. May you stead ^ me? will you pleasure me? shall I 
know your answer? 

Shylock. Three thousand ducats, for three months, and Antonio 
bound. 

Bassanio. Your answer to that. 

Shylock. Antonio is a good man.^ 

Bassanio. Have you heard any imputation to the contrary? 

Shylock. Oh, no, no, no, no: my meaning in saying he is a 
good man is to havt you understand me that he is sufficient. Yet his 
means are in supposition : ^ he hath an argosy bound to Tripolis, 
another to the Indies ; I understand, moreover, upon the Rialto,^ he 
hath a third at Mexico, a fourth for England, and other ventures he 
hath, squandered*^ abroad. But ships are but boards, sailors but 
men : there be land-rats and water-rats, water-thieves and land- 
thieves, I mean pirates, and then there is the peril of waters, winds 
and rocks. The man is, notwithstanding, sufficient. Three thousand 
ducats; I think I may take his bond. 

Bassanio. Be assured you may. 

Shylock. I will be assured I may ; and, that I may be assured, 
I will bethink me. May I speak with Antonio? 

Bassanio. If it please you to dine with us, 

Shylock. Yes, to smell pork ; to eat of the habitation which your 
prophet the Nazarite conjured the devil into.'' I will buy with you, 
sell with vou, talk with vou, walk with vou, and so following, but I 



192 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

will not eat with you, drink with you, nor pray with you. What news 
on the Rialto ? Who is he comes here? 

E?iter Antonio. 

Bassanio. This is Signior Antonio. 

Shylock. [Aside'] How like a fawning publican he looks ! 
I hate him for he is a Christian, 
But more for that in low simplicity 
He lends out money gratis and brings down 
The rate of usance ^ here with us in Venice. 
If I can catch him once upon the hip,^ 
I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him. 
He hates our sacred nation, and he rails. 
Even there where merchants most do congregate, 
On me, my bargains and my well-won thrift. 
Which he calls interest. ^° Cursed be my tribe, 
If I forgive him. 

Bassanio. Shylock, do you hear ? 

Shylock. I am debating of my present store, 
And, by the near guess of my memory, 
I cannot instantly raise up the gross 
Of full three thousand ducats. What of that ? 
Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe. 
Will furnish me. But soft ! how many months 
Do you desire? [To Antonio.] Rest you fair," ^ood signior; 
Your worship was the last man in our mouths. 

Antonio. Shylock, although I neither lend nor borrow 
By taking nor by giving of excess, ^^ 
Yet to supply the ripe wants ^^ of my friend, 
ril break a custom. Is he yet possessed 14 
How much ye would? 

Shylock. Ay, ay, three thousand ducats. 

Antonio. And for three months. 

Shylock. I had forgot ; three months ; you told me so. 
Well then, your bond ; and let me see ; but hear you ; 
Methought'5 you said you neither lend nor borrow 
Upon advantage. 

Antonio. I do never use it. 

Shylock. When Jacob grazed his uncle Laban's sheep — 
This Jacob from our holy Abram was. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 1 93 

As his wise mother wrought in his behalf, 
The third possessor ; ay, he was the third '^ — 

Antonio. And what of him? did he take interest ? 

Shylock. No, not take interest, not, as you would say, 
Directly interest : mark what Jacob did 
When Laban and himself were compromised '^ 
That all the eanlings '^ which were streak'd and pied 
Should fall as Jacob's hire.'^ 
This was a way to thrive, and he was blest : 
And thrift is blessing, if men steal it not. 

Antonio. This was a venture, sir, that Jacob served for; 
A thing not in his power to bring to pass. 
But sway'd and fashioned by the hand of heaven. 
Was this inserted ^° to make interest good.'' 
Or is your gold and silver ewes and rams? 

Shylock, I cannot tell ; I make it breed as fast : 
But note me, signior. 

Antonio. Mark you this, l^assanio,^' 
The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose. 
An evil soul producing holy witness 
Is like a villain with a smiling cheek, 
A goodly apple rotten at the heart ; 
O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath ! 

Shylock. Three thousand ducats ; 'tis a good round sum. 
Three months from ^twelve ; then, let me see ; the rate — 

Antonio. Well, Shylock, shall we be beholding'''' to you ? 

Shylock. Signior Antonio, many a time and oft 
In the Rialto you have rated me 
About my moneys and my usances : 
Still have I borne it with a patient shrug, 
For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe. 
You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog. 
And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine, ^^ 
And all for use of that which is mine own. 
Well then, it now appears you need my help : 
Go to,^"^ then ; you come to me, and you say, 
" Shylock, we would have moneys : " you say so ; 
You, that did void your rheum upon my beard 
And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur 
Over your threshold : moneys is your suit. 



194 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Wliat should I say to you? Should I not say 

" Hath a dog money? is it possible 

A cur can lend three thousand ducats?'' Or 

Shall I bend low and in a bondman's key. 
With bated breath and whispering humbleness, 
Say this : 

•• Fair sir. you spit on me on Wednesday last ; 
You spurn'd me such a day : another time 
You caird me dog : and for these courtesies 
ril lend you thus much moneys?" 

Antonio. I am as like to call thee so again, 
To spit on thee again, to spurn thee too. 
If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not 
As to thy friends : for when did friendship take 
A breed "^ for barren metal of his friend? 
But lend it rather to thine enemy. 
Who"*^ if he break, thou mayst with better face 
Exact the penalty. 

Shylock. Why. look you. how you storm ! 

I would be friends with }-ou and have vour love. 
Forget the shames that you have stain'd me with, 
Supply your present wants and take no doit ^^ 
Of usance for my moneys, and you'll not hear me : 
This is kind I offer.. 

Bassanio. This were kindness. 

Shylock. This kindness will I show, 

Go with me to a notary, seal me there 
Your single bond : and, in a merry sport. 
If you repa}' me not on such a day. 
In such a place, such sum or sums as are 
Express'd in the condition, ^^ let the forfeit 
Be nominated for an equal ^^ pound 
Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken 
In what part of vour body pleaseth me. 

Antonio. Content, i' faith : I'll seal to such a bond 
And say there is much kindness in the Jew. 

Bassanio. You shall not seal to such a bond for me : 
I'll rather dwelP"" in my necessity. 

Antonic"). Why. fear not. man: I will not forfeit it: 
Within these two months, that's a month before 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 1 95 

This bond expires, I do expect return 

Of thrice three times the value of this bond. 

Shvlock. O father Abram, what these Christians are, 
Whose own hard dealings teaches^' them suspect 
The thoughts of others ! Pray you, tell me this ; 
If he should break his day,^^ what should I gain 
By the exaction of the forfeiture ? 
A pound of man's flesh taken from a man 
Is not so estimable, proiitable neither, 
As flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. I say, 
To buy his favour, I extend this friendship : 
If he will take it, so ; if not, adieu ; 
And, for my love, I pray you wrong me not. 

Antonio. Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto this bond. 

Shvlock. Then meet me forthwith at the notary's ; 
Give him direction for this merry bond. 
And I will go and purse the ducats straight. 
See to my house, left in the fearful guard ^^ 
Of an unthrifty knave, and presently 
I will be with you. 

Antonio. Hie^"* thee, gentle Jew. \^Exit Shylock. 

The Hebrew will turn Christian : he grows kind. 

Bassanio. I like not fair terms and a villain's mind. 

Antonio. Come on : in this there can be no dismay ; 
My ships come home a month before the day. \_Exeunt. 



ACT II. 

Scene I. Belmont. A room m Portia's house. 

Flotu'ish of Cornets. Enter the Prince of Morocco and his train ; 
Portia, Nerissa, and others attending. 

Morocco. Mislike ' me not for my complexion, 
The shadow'd livery of the burnished sun, 
To whom I am a neighbour and near bred. 
Bring me the fairest creature northward born, 
Where Phoebus* fire scarce, thaws the icicles. 
And let us make incision for your love. 
To prove whose blood is reddest," his or mine. 



196 EXGLISII LITERATURE. 

I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine 

Hath fear'd -' the valiant: by my love, I swear 

The best-regarded"^ virgins of our dime 

Have loved it too : I would not change this hue. 

Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen. 

Portia. In terms of choice I am not solely led 
B}' nice ^ direction of a maiden's eyes ; 
Besides, the lottery of my destiny 
Bars me the ri^ht of voluntary choosing : 
But if niy father had not scanted ^ me. 
And hedged me by his wit, ' to yield myself 
His wife who wins me by that means I told you, 
Yourself, renowned prince, then stood ^ as fair 
As an}- comer I have look'd on yet 
For my aftection. 

IMoROCCO. Even for that 1 thank you : 

Therefore. I pray you. lead me to the caskets 
To try m}- fortune. By this scimitar. 
That slew the Sophy '^ and a Persian prince 
That won three lields of Sultan Solyman.^° 
I would outstare the sternest eyes that look. 
Outbrave the heart most daring on the earth. 
Pluck the young sucking cubs from the she-bear. 
Yea. mock the lion v/hen he roars for prey. 
To win thee, lady. But. alas the while .' 
If Hercules and Lichas ^^ play at dice 
Which IS the better man. the greater throw 
3.1a}- turn bv fortune from the weaker hand : 
So is Alcides '" beaten by his page : 
And so may I, blind fortune leading me. 
2^Iiss that which one unworthier may attain. 
And die with grieving. 

Portia. You must take your chance, 

And either not attempt to choose at aU 
Or swear, before you choose, if you choose wrong 
Xever to speak to lady afterward 
In wa}- of marriage : therefore be advised.'^ 

IMoROCCO. Nor will not. Come, bring me unto my chance. 

Portia. First, forward to the temple : '"* after dinner 
Your hazard shall be made. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 1 97 

Morocco. Good fortune then ! 

To make me blest or cursed'st among men. \_Cornets, and exeinit. 

Scene II. Venice. A street. 

Enter Launcelot. 

Launcelot. Certainly my conscience will serve me to run from 
this Jew my master. The fiend is at mine elbow and tempts me, say- 
ing to me " Gobbo, Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot," or '"good 
Gobbo," or " good Launcelot Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run 
away." My conscience says "No; take heed, honest Launcelot; 
take heed, honest Gobbo," or, as aforesaid, " honest Launcelot 
Gobbo; do not run ; scorn running with thy heels.'' Well, the most 
courageous fiend bids me pack: " Via ! ^' ' says the fiend; "away!" 
says the fiend; "for the heavens,^ rouse up a brave mind," says the 
fiend, " and run." Well, my conscience, hanging about the neck of 
my heart, says very wisely to me, " My honest friend Launcelot, being 
an honest man's son," or rather an honest woman's son ; for indeed 
my father did something smack, something grow to,^ he had a kind of 
taste; well, my conscience says, " Launcelot, budge not." " Budge," 
says the fiend. " Budge not," says my conscience. " Conscience," 
say I, " you counsel well ; " <' Fiend," say I, " you counsel well : " to 
be ruled by my conscience, I should stay with the Jew my master, 
who, God bless the mark,"* is a kind of devil ; and, to run away from 
the Jew, I should be ruled by the fiend, who, saving your reverence, is 
the devil himself. Certainly the Jew is the very devil incarnal ; ^ and, 
in my conscience, my conscience is but a kind of hard conscience, to 
offer to counsel me to stay with the Jew. The fiend gives the more 
friendly counsel : I will run, fiend ; my heels are at your command ; I 
will run. 

Ejiter Old Gobbo, with a basket. 

Gobbo. Master young man, you, I pray you, which is the way to 
master Jew's ? 

Launcelot. \_Aside] O heavens, this is my true-begotten father! 
who, being more than sand-blind,^ high-gravel-blind, knows me not : 
I will try confusions ^ with him. 

Gobbo. Master young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way 
to master Jew's ? 

Launcelot. Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, 
but, at the next turning of all, on your left ; marry, ^ at the very next 



IQo ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

turning, turn of no hand, but' turn down indirectly to the Jew's 
house. 

GOBBO. By God's sonties,^ 'twill be a hard way to hit. Can you 
tell me whether one Launcelot, that dwells with him, dwell with him 
or no ? 

Launcelot. Talk you of young Master Launcelot ? \^Aside\ 
Mark me now; now will I raise the waters. '° — Talk you of young 
Master Launcelot? 

GoBBO. No master,^' sir, but a poor man's son: his father, 
though I say it, is an honest exceeding poor man and, God be 
thanked, well to live. 

Launcelot. Well, let his father be what a' will,"' we talk of 
young Master Launcelot. 

GOBBO. Your worship's friend and Launcelot, sir. 

Launcelot. But I pray you, ergo,'^ old man, ergo, I beseech 
you, talk you of young Master Launcelot? 

GoBBO. Of Launcelot, an't '^ please your mastership. 

Launcelot. Ergo, Master Launcelot. Talk not of Master 
Launcelot, father ;'5 for the young gentleman, according to Fates and 
Destinies and such odd sayings, the Sisters Three and such branches 
of learning, is indeed deceased, or, as you would say in plain terms. 
gone to heaven. 

GoBBO. Marry, God forbid ! the boy was the very staff of my age, 
my very prop. 

Launcelot. Do I look like a cudgel or a hovel-post,'^ a staff" or 
a prop? Do you know me, father ? 

GOBBO. Alack the day, I know you not, young gentleman : but, 
I pray you, tell me, is my boy, God rest his soul, alive or dead ? 

Launcelot. Do you not know me, father ? 

GoBBO. Alack, sir, I am sand-blind; I know you not. 

Launcelot. Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of 
the knowing me : it is a wise father that knows his own child. Well, 
old man, I will tell you news' of your son : give me your blessing : truth 
will come to light ; murder cannot be hid long ; a man's son may, but 
at the length truth will out. 

GoBBO. Pray you, sir, stand up :'7 I am sure you are not Launce- 
lot, my boy. 

Launcelot. Pray you, let's have no more fooling about it, but 
give me your blessing : I am Launcelot, your boy that was, your son 
that is, your child that shall be. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 1 99 

GOBBO. I cannot think you are my son. 

Launcelot. I know not what I shall think of that : but I am 
Launcelot, the Jew's man, and I am sure Margery your wife is my 
mother. 

G06BO. Her name is Margery, indeed: I'll be sworn, if thou be 
Launcelot, thou art mine own flesh and blood. Lord worshipped might 
he be ! what a beard hast thou got ! thou hast more hair on thy chin 
than Dobbin my fill-horse ^^ has on his tail. 

Launcelot. It should seem then that Dobbin's tail grows back- 
ward : I am sure he had more hair of his tail than I have of my face 
when I last saw him. 

GoBBO. Lord, how art thou changed! How dost thou and thy 
master agree? I have brought him a present. How 'gree you now .^ 

Launcelot. Well, well: but, for mine own part, as I have set 
up my rest "^ to run away, so I will not rest till I have run some 
ground. My master's a very Jew : give him a present ! give him a 
halter; I am famished in his service; you may tell every finger I 
have with my ribs. Father, I am glad you are come: give me ^° your 
present to one Master Bassanio, who indeed gives rare new liveries : 
if I serve not him, I will run as far as God has any ground. O rare 
fortune! here comes the man: to him, father: for I am a Jew, if I 
serve the Jew any longer. 

Enter Bassanio, ivitJi Leonardo and ot/ier fol/oiuers. 

Bassanio. You may do so : but let it be so hasted that supper 
be ready at the farthest by five of the clock. See these letters de- 
livered ; put the liveries to making, and desire Gratiano to come anon 
to my lodging. ^Exit a Servant. 

Launcelot. To him, father. 

GoBBO. God bless your worship ! 

Bassanio. Gramercy!^' wouldst thou aught with me ? 

GoBBO. Here's my son, sir, a poor boy. — 

Launcelot. Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew's man ; that 
would, sir, as my father shall specify — 

GoBBO. He hath a great infection, ^^ sir, as one would say, to 
serve — 

Launcelot. Indeed, the short and the long is, I serve the Jew, 
and have a desire, as my father shall specify. — 

GOBBO. His master and he. saving your worship's reverence, are 
scarce cater-cousins ^^ — 

Launcelot To be brief, the very truth is that the Jew, having 



200 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

done me wrong, doth cause me, as my father, being, I hope, an old 
man, shall frutify^'^ unto you, — 

GoBBO. I have here a dish of doves that I would bestow upon 
your worship, and my suit is — 

Launcelot, In very brief, the suit is impertinent '5 to myself, 
as your worship shall know by this honest old man ; and, though I say 
it, though old man, yet poor man, my father. 

Bassanio. One speak for both. What would you? 

Launcelot. Serve you, sir. 

GoBBO. That is the very defect '^ of the matter, sir. 

Bassanio. I know thee well ; thou hast obtained thy suit : 
Shylock thy master spoke with me this day. 
And hath preferrd^^ ^j-^gg^ jf j^. ^^ preferment 
To leave a rich Jew's service, to become 
The follower of so poor a gentleman. 

Launcelot. The old proverb ^^ is very well parted between my 
master Shylock and you, sir : you have the grace of God, sir, and he 
hath enough. 

Bassanio. Thou speak'st it well. Go, father, with thy son. 
Take leave of thy old master and inquire 
My lodging out. Give him a livery 
More guarded ^'^ than his fellows' : see it done. 

Launcelot. Father, in. I cannot get a service, no ; I have 
ne'er a tongue in my head. Well, if any man in Italy have a fairer 
table ^° which doth offer to swear upon a book, I shall have good for- 
tune. Go to, here's a simple line of life,^' here's a small trifle of 
wives : alas, fifteen wives is nothing ! eleven widows and nine maids 
is a simple coming-in for one man : and then to scape drowning 
thrice, and to be in peril of my life with the edge of a feather-bed;^^ 
here are simple scapes. Well, if Fortune be a Avoman, she's a good 
v^^ench for this gear. Father, come ; I'll take my leave of the Jew in 
the twinkling of an eye. \Exeiint Launcelot and Old Gobbo. 

Bassanio. I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this : 
These things being bought and orderly bestow'd 
Return in haste, for I do feast to-night 
My best-esteemed acquaintance : hie thee, go. 

Leonardo. My best endeavours shall be done herein. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 



20 1 



E7iter Gratiano. 



Gratiano. 
Leonardo 
Gratiano. 
Bassanio. 
Gratiano. 
Bassanio. 
Gratiano. 
Belmont. 

Bassanio. 



Where is your master ? 



Yonder, sir, he walks. [Exi'L 



Signior Bassanio ! 
Gratiano ! 
I have a suit to you. 

You must not deny 



You have obtained it. 
me : I must go with you 

But hear thee, Gratiano ; 



to 



Why then you must. 
Thou art too wild, too rude and bold of voice ; 
Parts that become thee happily enough 
And in such eyes as ours appear not faults ; 
But where thou art not known, why, there they show 
Something too liberal. ^^ Pray thee, take pain 
To allay with some cold drops of modesty 
Thy skipping ^^ spirit, lest through thy wild behaviour 
! be misconstrued in the place I go to 
And lose my hopes. 

Gratiano. Signior Bassanio, hear me : 

If I do not put on a sober habit, 
Talk with respect and swear but now and then. 
Wear prayer-books in my pocket, look demurely, 
Nay more, while grace is saying, hood mine eyes 
Thus with my hat,^^ ^j^(\ sjgj-, ^md say " amen,'' 
Use all the observance of civility,'*^ 
Like one well studied in a sad ostent ^^ 
To please his grandam, never trust me more. 

Bassanio. Well, we shall see your bearing. 

Gratiano. Nay, but I bar to-night: you shall not gauge me 
By what we do to-night. 

Bassanio. No, that were pity : 

I would entreat you rather to put on 
Your boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends 
That purpose merriment. But fare you well : 
I have some business. 

Gratiano. And I must to Lorenzo and the rest : 
But we will visit you at supper-time. {^Exeunt. 



202 ENGLrSH LITERATURE. 

Scene III. The same. A room iii Shy lock'' s house. 
Enter Jessica and Launcelot. 

Jessica. I am sorry thou wilt leave my father so : 
Our house is hell, and thou, a merry devil, 
Didst rob it of some taste of tediousness. 
But fare thee well, there is a ducat for thee : 
And, Launcelot, soon at supper shalt thou see 
Lorenzo, who is thy new masters guest : 
Give him this letter; do it secretly; 
And so farewell : I would not have my father 
See me in talk with thee. 

Launcelot. Adieu! tears exhibit' my tongue. Most beautiful 
pagan, most sweet Jew, adieu : these foolish drops do something 
drown my manly spirit : adieu. 

Jessica. Farewell, good Launcelot. \_Exit Launcelot. 

Alack, what heinous sin is it in me 
To be ashamed to be my father's child ! 
But though I am a daughter to his blood, 
I am not to his manners. O Lorenzo, 
If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife, 
Become a Christian and thy loving wife. " \_Exit. 

Scene IV. The same. A street. 
Enter Gratiano, Lorenzo, Salarino, ajid Salanio. 

Lorenzo. Nay, we will slink away in supper-time. 
Disguise us at my lodging and return, 
All in an hour. 

Gratiano. We have not made good preparation. 

Salarino. We have not spoke us yet of torch-bearers.' 

Salanio. 'Tis vile, unless it may be quaintly order'd. 
And better in my mind not undertook. 

Lorenzo. 'Tis now but four o'clock : we have two hours. 
To furnish us. 

Enter Launcelot, with a letter. 

Friend Launcelot, what's the news ? 
Launcelot. An^ it shall please you to break up ^ this, it shall 
seem to signify. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 203 

LOKENZO. I know the hand : in faith, His a fair hand, 
And whiter than the paper it writ on 
Is the fair hand that writ. 

Gratiano. Love-news, in faith. 

Launcelot. By your leave, sir. 

Lorenzo. Whither goest thou ? 

Launcelot. Marry, sir, to bid my old master the Jew to sup 
to-night with my new master the Christian. 

Lorenzo. Hold here, take this : tell gentle Jessica 
I will not fail her ; speak it privately. S^Exit Launcelot. 

Go, gentlemen. 

Will you prepare you for this masque to-night ? 
I am provided of ^ a torch-bearer. 

Salarino. Ay, marry, I'll be gone about it straight. 

Salanio. And so will I. 

Lorenzo. Meet me and Gratiano 

At Gratiano's lodging some hour hence. 

Salarino. *Tis good we do so. 

\Exeunt Salarino and Salanio. 

Gratiano. Was not that letter from fair Jessica .? 

Lorenzo. I must needs tell thee all. She hath directed 
How I shall take her from her father's house. 
What gold and jewels she is furnish'd with, 
What page's suit she hath in readiness. 
If e'er the Jew her father come to heaven, 
It will be for his gentle daughter's sake ; 
And never dare misfortune cross her foot, 
Unless she do it under this excuse, 
That she is issue to a faithless Jew. 
Come, go with me ; peruse this as thou goest : 
Fair Jessica shall be my torch-bearer. \Exennt. 



Scene V. The sa?;ie. Before Shylock's house. 

Enter Shvlock and Launcelot. 

Shylock. Well, thou shalt see, thy eyes shall be thy judge. 
The difference of old Shylock and Bassanio : — 
What, Jessica ! — thou shalt not gormandize, 
As thou hast done with me : — What, Jessica ! — 



204 ENGLISH LITER A TURE. 

And sleep and snore, and rendapparel out: — 
Why, Jessica, I say ! 

Launcelot. Why, Jessica ! 

Shylock. Who bids thee call ? I do not bid thee call. 

Launcelot. Your worship was wont to tell me that I could do 
nothing without bidding. 

E?ite?' Jessica. 

Jessica. Call you ? what is your will ? 

Shylock. I am bid forth ' to supper, Jessica : 
There are my keys. But wherefore should I go ? 
I am not bid for love ; they flatter me : 
But yet ril go in hate, to feed upon 
The prodigal Christian. Jessica, my girl, 
Look to my house. I am right loath to go : 
There is some ill a-brewing towards my rest, 
For I did dream of money-bags to-night. 

Launcelot. I beseech you, sir, go : my young master doth 
expect your reproach.^ 

Shylock. So do I his. 

Launcelot. An they have conspired together, I will not say you 
shall see a masque ; but if you do, then it was not for nothing that my 
nose fell a-bleeding on Black-Monday ^ last at six o'clock i' the morn- 
ing falling out that year on Ash-Wednesday was four year, in the 
afternoon. 

Shylock. What, are there masques? Hear you me, Jessica: 
Lock up my doors ; and when you hear the drum 
And the vile squealing of the wry-neck'd fife,'^ 
Clamber not you up to the casements then, 
Nor thrust your head into the public street 
To gaze on Christian fools with varnisli'd faces, 
But stop my house's ears, I mean my casements: 
Let not the sound of shallow foppery enter 
My sober house. By Jacob's staff, ^ I swear, 
I have no mind of feasting^ forth to-night : 
But I will go. Go you before me, sirrah ; 
Say I will come. 

Launcelot. I will go before sir. Mistress, look out at window, 
for all this ; 

There will come a Christian by, 

Will be worth a Jewess' eye. \_Exit. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 20$ 

Shylock. What says that fool of Hagars offspring, ^ ha?. 

Jessica. His words were "farewell mistress;" nothing else. 

Shylock. The patch ^ is kind enough, but a huge feeder; 
Snail-slow in profit, and he sleeps by day 
More than the wild-cat : drones hive not with me : 
Therefore I part with him, and part with him 
To one that I would have him help to waste 
His borrowed purse. Well, Jessica, go in : 
Perhaps I will return immediately : 
Do as I bid you ; shut doors after you : 
Fast bind, fast find ; 
A proverb never stale in thifty mind. [^Exit. 

Jessica. Farewell ; and if my fortune be not crost, 
I have a father, you a daughter, lost. \_Exit. 

Scene VI. T/ie same. 
Enter Gratiano aiid Salarino, inasqued. 

Gratiano. This is the pent-house under which Lorenzo 
Desired us to make stand. 

Salarino. His hour is almost past. 

Gratiano. And it is marvel he out-dwells ' his hour, 
For lovers ever run before the clock. 

Salarino. O, ten times faster Venus' pigeons^ fly 
To seal love's bonds new-made, than they are wont 
To keep obliged ^ faith unforfeited ! 

Gratiano. That ever holds : who riseth from a feast 
With that keen appetite that he sits down ? 
Where is the horse that doth untread again 
His tedious measures with the unbated fire 
That he did pace them first? All things that are 
Are with more spirit chased than enjoy'd. 
How like a younker or a prodigal 
The scarfed ^ bark puts from her native bay, 
Hugg'd and embraced by the strumpet wind ! 
How like the prodigal doth she return, 
With over-weather'd ^ ribs and ragged sails. 
Lean, rent and beggar'd by the strumpet wind ! 

Salarino. Here comes Lorenzo : more of this hereafter. 



206 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Enter Lorenzo. 

Lorenzo. Sweet friends, your patience for my long abode ; ^ 
Not I, but my affairs, have made you wait : 
When you shall please to play the thieves for wives, 
I'll watch as long for you then. Approach ; 
Here dvv'ells my father Jew. Ho ! who's within? 

Ejiter Jessica, above, in boy's clothes. 

Jessica. Who are you? Tell me, for more certainty, 
Albeit ril swear that I do know your tongue. 

Lorenzo. Lorenzo, and thy love. 

Jessica. Lorenzo, certain, and my love indeed. 
For who ^ love I so m^uch ? And now who knows 
But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours? 

Lorenzo. Heaven and thy thoughts are witness that thou art. 

Jessica. Here, catch this casket ; it is worth the pains. 
I am glad 'tis night, you do not look on me. 
For I am much ashamed of my exchange : ^ 
But love is blind and lovers cannot see 
The pretty follies that themselves commit ; 
For if they could, Cupid himself would blush 
To see me thus transformed to a boy. 

Lorenzo. Descend, for you must be my torch-bearer. 

Jessica. What, must I hold a candle to my shames? 
They in themselves, good sooth,^ are too too light. 
Why, 'tis an office of discovery, love ; 
And I should be obscured. 

Lorenzo. So are you, sweet, 

Even in the lovely garnish of a boy. 
But come at once ; 

For the close '° night doth play the runaway, 
And we are stay'd for at Bassanio's feast. 

Jessica. I will make fast the doors, and gild myself 
With some more ducats, and be with you straight. {^Exit above. 

Gratiano. Now, by my hood, a Gentile and no Jew. 

Lorenzo. Beshrew me " but I love her heartily; 
For she is wise, if I can judge of her. 
And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true. 
And true she is, as she hath proved herself, 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 207 

And therefore, like herself, wise, fair and true, 
Shall she be placed in my constant soul. 

Enter Jessica, below. 

What, art thou come? On, gentlemen ; away ! 
Our masquing mates by this time for us stay. 

\_Exit with Jessica and Salarino. 

Enter Antonio. 

Antonio. Who's there? 

Gratiano. Signior Antonio ! 

Antonio. Fie, fie, Gratiano ! where are all the rest? 
'Tis nine o'clock : our friends all stay for you. 
No masque to-night : the wind is come about ; 
Bassanio presently will go aboard ; 
I have sent twenty out to seek for you. 

Gratiano. I am glad on't ;'^ I desire no more delight 
Than to be under sail and gone to-night. ^Exeunt. 

Scene VII. Beljnont. A room in Portia's house. 

Flourish of Cornets. Enter Portia with the Prince of Morocco, 
and their trains. 

Portia. Go draw aside the curtains and discover 
The several caskets to this noble prnice. 
Now make your choice. 

Morocco. The first, of gold, who ' this inscription bears, 
" Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire ; " 
The second, silver, which this promise carries, 
" Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves ; " 
This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt, ^ 
" Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath." 
How shall I know if I do choose the right? 

Portia. The oie of them contains my picture, prince : 
If you choose that, then I am yours withal. 

Morocco. Some God direct my judgment ! Let me see ; 
I will survey the inscriptions back again. 
What says this leaden casket? 
" Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath." 



208 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Must give ! for what? for lead? hazard for lead? 

This casket threatens. Men that hazard all 

Do it in hope of fair advantages : 

A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross ; 

I'll then nor give nor hazard aught for lead. 

What says the silver with her virgin hue? 

" Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.'* 

As much as he deserves ! Pause there, Morocco, 

And weigh thy value with an even hand : 

If thou be'st rated by thy estimation,^ 

Thou dost deserve enough ; and yet enough 

May not extend so far as to the lady : 

And yet to be afeard of my deserving 

Were but a weak disabling '' of myself. 

As much as I deserve ! Why, that's the lady : 

I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes, 

In graces and in qualities of breeding; 

But more than these, in love I do deserve. 

What if I stray'd no further, but chose here? 

Let's see once more this saying graved in gold ; 

" Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire." 

Why, that's the lady ; all the world desires her ; 

From the four corners of the earth they come, 

To kiss this shrine,^ ihis mortal breathing saint; 

The Hyrcanian deserts ^ and the vasty wilds 

Of wide Arabia are as throughfares now 

For princes to come view fair Portia : 

The watery kingdom, whose ambitious head 

Spits in the face of heaven, is no bar 

To stop the foreign spirits, but they come. 

As o'er a brook, to see fair Portia. 

One of these three contains her heavenly picture. 

Is't like that lead contains her? 'Twere damnation 

To think so base a thought : it were too gross 

To rib her cerecloth in the obscure grave. 

Or shall I think in silver she's immured. 

Being ten times undervalued " to tried gold? 

O sinful thought ! Never so rich a gem 

Was set in worse than gold. They have in England 

A coin that bears the figure of an angel 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 209 

Stamped in gold, but that's insculp'd upon;" 
But here an angel in a golden bed 
Lies all within. Deliver me the key : 
Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may ! 

Portia. There, take it, prince ; and if my form lies there. 
Then I am yours. "y^He unlocks t lie golden casket. 

Morocco. Ohell! what have we here? 

A carrion Death, ^ within whose empty eye 
There is a written scroll ! Til read the writing. 
\^Reads'\ All that glisters is not gold ; 

Often have jou heard that told : 
Many a man his life hath sold 
But my outside to behold : 
Gilded tombs do worms infold. 
Had you been as wise as bold. 
Young in limbs, in judgment old. 
Your answer had not been inscrolTd : 
Fare you well ; your suit is cold. 
Cold, indeed ; and labour lost : 
Then, farewell, heat, and welcome, frost! 
Portia, adieu. I have too grieved a heart 
To take a tedious leave : thus losers part.'° 

\_Exit luitJi his traiii. Flourish of Cornets. 
Portia. A gentle riddance. Draw the curtains, go. 
Let all of his complexion choose me so. \_Exeunt. 

Scene VHL Venice. A street. 
Enter Salarino mid Salanio. 

Salarino. Why, man, I saw Bassanio under sail : 
With him is Gratiano gone along ; 
And in their ship Fm sure Lorenzo is not. 

Salanio. The villain Jew with outcries raised the duke, 
Who went with him to search Bassanio's ship, 

Salarino. He came too late, the ship was under sail : 
But there the duke was given to understand 
That in a gondola were seen together 
Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica : 
Besides, Antonio certified the duke 
They were not with Bassanio in his ship. 



210 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Salaxio. I never heard a passion ' so confused, 
So strange, outrageous, and so variable. 
As the dog Jew did utter in the streets : 
" My daughter ! O my ducats ! O m\- daughter! 
Fled with a Christian ! O my Christian ducats I 
Justice ! the law ! my ducats, and my daughter I 
A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats, 
Of double ducats, stolen from me by my daughter! 
And jewels, two stones, two rich and precious stones, 
Stolen by my daughter ! Justice ! find the girl ; 
She hath the stones upon her, and the ducats."' 

Salarino. Why, all the boys in Venice follow him, 
Crying, his stones, his daughter, and his ducats. 

Salaxio. Let good Antonio look he keep his day,^ 
Or he shall pay for this, 

Salarino. !Marry, well remember'd. 

I reason'd ^ with a Frenchman yesterday. 
Who told me, in the narrow seas that part 
The French and English, there miscarried 
A vessel of our country richly fraught : 
I thought upon Antonio when he told me. 
And wish'd in silence that it were not his. 

Salanio. You were besf* to tell Antonio what you hear 
Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him. 

Salarino. A kinder gentleman treads not the earth. 
I saw Bassanio and Antonio part : 
Bassanio told him he would make some speed 
Of his return : he answer'd, '• Do not so ; 
Slubber ^ not business for my sake, Bassanio, 
But stay the very riping of the time ; 
And for the Jew's bond which he hath of me. 
Let it not enter in your mind of love : '' 
Be merry, and employ your chiefest thoughts 
To courtship and such fair ostents ^ of love 
As shall conveniently ^ become you there : "' 
And even there, his eye being big with tears. 
Turning his face, he put his hand behind him, 
And with affection wondrous sensible ^° 
He wrung Bassanio's hand ; and so they parted. 

Salaxio. I think he onlv loves the world for him. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 211 

I pray thee, let us go and find him out 
And quicken his embraced heaviness " 
With some dehght or other. 

Salarino. Do we so.'^ {^Exeunt. 

Scene IX. Belmont. A roo7n in Portia's Jiouse. 

Entt'7' Nerissa witJi a Sei'vitor. 

Nerissa. Quick, quick, I pray thee; draw tlie curtain straight:^ 
The Prince of Arragon hath ta'en his oath, 
And comes to his election" presently. 

Flourish of Cornets. Enter the Prince of Arragon, Portia, 
and their trains. 

Portia. Behold, there stand the caskets, noble prince; 
If you choose that wherein I am contain'd, 
Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemnized : 
But if you fail, without more speech, my lord. 
You must be gone from hence immediately. 

Arragon. I am enjoined by oath to observe three things : 
First, never to unfold to any one 
Which casket 'twas I chose ; next, if I fail 
Of the right casket, never in my life 
To woo a maid in way of marriage : 
Lastly, 

If I do fail in fortune of my choice. 
Immediately to leave you and be gone. 

Portia. To these injunctions every one doth swear 
That comes to hazard for my worthless self. 

Arragon. And so have I addressed me.^ Fortune now 
To my heart's hope ! ^ Gold ; silver ; and base lead. 
" Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath." 
You shall look fairer, ere I give or hazard. 
What says the golden chest ? ha ! let me see 
"Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.' 
What many men desire ! that " many ^' may be meant 
By 5 the fool multitude, that choose by show. 
Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach ; 
Which pries not to the interior, but, like the martlet,*^ 



212 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Builds in the weather on the outward wall, 

Even in the force and road of casuality. 

I will not choose what many men desire, 

Because I will not jump with "^ common spirits 

And rank me with the barbarous multitudes. 

Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure-house ; 

Tell me once more what title thou dost bear : 

" Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves : " 

And well said too ; for who shall go about 

To cozen fortune and be honourable 

Without the stamp of merit ? Let none presume 

To wear an undeserved dignity. 

O, that estates, degrees and offices 

Were not derived corruptly, and that clear honour 

Were purchased by the merit of the wearer ! 

How many then should cover that stand bare ! 

How many be commanded that command! 

How much low peasantry would then be glean'd 

From the true seed of honour ! and how much honour 

Pick'd from the chaff and ruin ^ of the times 

To be new-varnish'd ! Well; but to my choice : 

" Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves." 

I will assume desert. Give me a key for this. 

And instantly unlock my fortunes here. 

\_He opens the sih^er casket. 

Portia. Too long a pause for that which you find there. 

Arragon. Whafs here? the portrait of a blinking idiot, 
Presenting me a schedule ! I will read it. 
How much unlike art thou to Portia ! 
How much unlike my hopes and my deservings ! 
" Who chooseth me shall have as much as he deserves." 
Did I deserve no more than a fooPs head ? 
Is that my prize? are my deserts no better? 

Portia. To offend, and judge, ^ are distinct offices 
And of opposed natures. 

Arragox. What is here ? 

[^Reads'] The fire seven times tried this : 

Seven times tried that judgment is, 
That did never choose amiss. 
Some there be that shadows kiss ; 



THE MERCHANT OE VENICE. 213 

Such have but a shadow's bliss : 
There be fools ahve, I Avis,'° 
Silver d o'er; and so was this. 
Take what wife you will to bed, 
I will ever be your head : 
So be gone : you are sped." 

Still more fool I shall appear 

By the time '^ I linger here : 

With one fool's head I came to woo, 

But I go away with two. 

Sweet, adieu. Til keep my oath, 

Patiently to bear my wroth. '^ 

Exeimt Arragon aiid train. 

Portia. Thus hath the candle singed the moth. 
O, these deliberate fools ! when they do choose. 
They have the wisdom by their wit to lose. 

Nerissa. The ancient saying is no heresy, 
Hanging and wiving goes by destiny. 

Portia. Come, draw the curtain, Nerissa. 

Enter a Servant. 

Servant. Where is my lady.? 

Portia. Here : what would my lord ? ^^ 

Servant. Madam, there is alighted at your gate 
A young Venetian, one that comes before 
To signify the approaching of his lord ; 
From whom he bringeth sensible regreets,'^ 
To wit, besides commends '^ and courteous breath, 
Gifts of rich value. Yet'^ I have not seen 
So likely an ambassador of love : 
A day in April never came so sweet, 
To show how costly summer was at hand. 
As this fore-spurrer comes before his lord. 

Portia. No more, I pray thee: I am half afeard 
Thou wilt say anon he is some kin to thee, 
Thou spend'st such high-day wit in praising him. 
Come, come, Nerissa ; for I long to see 
Quick Cupid's post '^ that comes so mannerly. 

Nerissa. Bassanio, lord Love,^'^ if thy will it be! \Exeunt. 



214 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

ACT III. 
Scene I. Venice. A street. 

Enter Salanio and Salarino. 

Salanio. Now, what news on the Rialto? 

Salarino. Why, yet it Hves there unchecked that Antonio hath 
a ship of rich lading wrecked on the narrow seas; the Goodwins,' 
I think they call the place ; a very dangerous flat and fatal, where the 
carcases of many a tall ship lie buried, as they say, if my gossip Re- 
port be an honest woman of her word. 

Salanio. I would she were as lying a gossip in that as ever 
knapped ginger ^ or made her neighbours believe she wept for the 
death of a third husband. But it is true, without any slips of pio- 
lixity or crossing the plain highway of talk, that the good Antonio, the 
honest Antonio, — O that I had a title good enough to keep his name 
company ! — 

Salarino. Come, the full stop. 

Salanio. Ha! what sayest thou? Why, the end is, he hath 
lost a ship. 

Sal'Arino. I would it might prove the end of his losses. 

Salanio. Let me say "amen" betimes, lest the devil cross my 
prayer, for here he pomes in the likeness of a Jew. 

Enter Shylock. 
How now, Shylock! what news among the merchants? 

Shylock. You knew, none so well, none so well as you, of my 
daughter's flight. 

Salarino. That's certain: I, for my part, knew the tailor that 
made the wings she flew withal. ^ 

Salanio. And Shylock, for his own part, knew the bird was 
fledged; and then it is the complexion"^ of them all to leave the dam. 

Shylock. My own flesh and blood to rebel ! 

Salarino. There is more difference between thy flesh and hers 
than between jet and ivory ; more between your bloods than there is 
between red wine and Rhenish. But tell us, do you hear whether 
Antonio have had any loss at sea or no ? 

Shylock. There I have another bad match : 5 a bankrupt, a 
prodigal, who dare scarce show his head on the Rialto ; a beggar, 
that was used to come so smug ^ upon the mart ; let him look to his 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 21$ 

bond : he was wont to call me usurer ; let him look to his bond : he 
was wont to lend money for a Christian courtesy; let him look to his 
bond. 

Salarino. Why, I am sure, if he forfeit, thou wilt not take his 
flesh : what's that good for ? 

Shvlock. To bait fish withal : if it will feed nothing else, it will 
feed my revenge. He hath disgraced me, and hindered me half a mil- 
lion ; 7 laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, 
thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies ; and 
what's his reason ? I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes ? hath not a Jew 
hands, organs, dimensions, senses, alTections, passions? fed with the 
same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, 
healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and 
summer, as a Christian is ? If you prick us, do we not bleed ? if you 
tickle us, do we not laugh .^ if you poison us, do we not die? and if 
you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, 
we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his 
humility? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his 
sufferance be by Christian example ? Why, revenge. The villany 
you teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the 
instruction. 

Elite?' a Sei'vant. 

Servant. Gentlemen, my master Antonio is at his house and 
desires to speak with you both. 

Salarino. We have been up and down to seek him. 

Enter Tubal. 
Salanio. Here comes another of the tribe : a third cannot be 
matched, unless the devil himself turn Jew. 

[^.rt'?/;// Salanio, Salarino, ajid Sei-vant. 
Shylock. How now. Tubal! what news from Genoa? hast thou 
found my daughter? 

Tubal. I often came where I did hear of her, but cannot find 
her. 

Shylock. Why. there, there, there, there I a diamond gone, cost 
me two thousand ducats in Frankfort ! ^ The curse never fell upon 
our nation till now : I never felt it till now ; two thousand ducats in 
that ; "^ and other precious, precious jewels. I would my daughter 
were dead at my foot, and the jewels in her ear ! would she were 
hearsed at my foot, and the ducats in her cofiin ! No news of them? 



2l6 EXGLISH LITERATURE. 

Why, so : and I know not what's spent in the search : whv, thou loss 
upon loss ! the thief gone with so much, and so much to find the thief; 
and no satisfaction, no revenge : nor no ill luck stirring but what 
lights on my shoulders : no sighs but of my breathing : no tears but 
of my shedding. 

Tubal. Yes. other men have ill luck too : Antonio, as I heard 
in Genoa. — 

Shylock. What. what, what? ill luck, ill luck? 

Tubal. Plath an argosy cast away, coming from Tripolis. 

Shylock. I thank God, I thank God. Is"t true, is"t true ? 

Tubal. I spoke with some of the sailors that escaped the wreck. 

Shylock. I thank thee, good Tubal : good news, good news ! 
ha, ha I where? in Genoa? 

Tubal. Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard, in one night 
fourscore ducats. 

Shylock. Thou stickest a dagger in me : I shall never see my 
gold again : fourscore ducats at a sitting I fourscore ducats I 

Tubal. There came divers of Antonio's creditors in my company 
to Venice, that swear he cannot choose but break. 

Shylock. I am very glad of it : I'll plague him ; I'll torture him : 
I am glad of it. 

Tubal. One of them showed me a ring that he had of your 
daughter for a monkey. 

Shylock. Out upon her I Thou torturest me. Tubal: it was my 
turquoise : ^° I had it of Leah when I was a bachelor : I would not 
have given it for a wilderness of monkeys. 

Tubal. But Antonio is certainly undone. 

Shylock. Nay, that's true, that's very true. Go. Tubal, fee me 
an officer : bespeak him a fortnight before. I will have the heart of 
him. if he forfeit: for. were he out of \'enice. I can make what n:ier- 
chandise I will. Go, go, Tubal, and meet me at our synagogue : go, 
good Tubal ; at our synagogue, Tubal. \Exeunt. 

Scene II. Behiiont. A room in Portia's house. 

E?itc?- Bassaxio, Portia, Gratiano. Xerissa, and 
Attendants. 
Portia. I pray }-ou. tarry : pause a day or two 
Befoi'e you hazard : for. in choosing \vrong. 
I lose your company ; therefore forbear awhile. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 21/ 

There's something tells me, but it is not love, 
I would not lose you ; and you know yourself, 
Hate counsels not in such a quality. 
But lest you should not understand me well, — 
And yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought, — 
I would detain you here some month or two 
Before you venture for me. I could teach you 
How to choose right, but I am then forsworn ; ' 
So will I never be : so may you miss me ; 
But if you do, you'll make me wish a sin. 
That I had been forsworn. Beshrew ^ your eyes, 
They have o'erlook'd me ^ and divided me ; 
One half of me is yours, the other half yours. 
Mine own, I would say ; but if mine, then yours, 
And so all yours. O, these naughty times 
Put bars between the owners and their rights ! 
And so, though yours, not yours. Prove it so,'* 
Let fortune go to hell for it, not I. 
I speak too long ; but 'tis to peize ^ the time, 
So eke it and to draw it out in length, 
To stay you from election. 

Bassanio. Let me choose ; 

For as I am, I live upon the rack. 

Portia. Upon the rack, Bassanio I then confess . 
What treason there is mingled with your love. 

Bassanio. None but that ugly treason of mistrust. 
Which makes me fear ^ the enjoying of my love : 
There may as well be amity and life 
'Tween snow and fire, as treason and my love. 

Portia. A}*, but I fear you speak upon the rack. 
Where men enforced do speak anything. 

Bassanio. Promise me life, and FU confess the truth. 

Portia. Well then, confess and live. 

Bassanio. ■' Confess "■ and " love " 

Had been the very sum of my confession : 
O happy torment, when my torturer 
Doth teach me answers for deliverance ! 
But let me to my fortune and the caskets. 

Portia. Away, then ! I am lock'd in one of them : 
If you do love me, you will find me out. 



2l8 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Nerissa and the rest, stand all aloof. 

Let music sound while he doth make his choice ; 

Then, if he lose, he makes a swan-like end,'' 

Fading in music : that the comparison 

May stand more proper, my eye shall be the stream 

And watery death-bed for him. He may win ; 

And what is music then? Then music is 

Even as the flourish ^ when true subjects bow 

To a new-crowned monarch : such it is 

As are those dulcet sounds in break of day 

That creep into the dreaming bridegroom's ear 

And summon him to marriage. Now he goes. 

With no less presence, but with much more love, 

Than young Alcides,^ when he did redeem 

The virgin tribute paid by howling Troy 

To the sea-monster : I stand for sacrifice ; 

The rest aloof are the Dardanian wives, '° 

With bleared visages, come forth to view 

The issue of the exploit. Go, Hercules ! 

Live thou, I live : with much, much more dismay 

I view the fight than thou that makest the fray. 

Music, ■z£//^//j/,Bassanio comnients on the caskets to hitnself. 

SONG. 

Tell me where is fancy bred, 
Or in the heart or in the head ? 
How begot, how nourished? 

Reply, reply. 
It is engender'd in the eyes, 
With gazing fed ; and fancy dies 
In the cradle where it hes. 

Let us all ring fancy's knell : 

I'll begin it, — Ding, dong, bell. 

All. Ding, dong, bell. 

Bassanio. So may the outward shows be least themselves : 
The world is still deceiv'd with ornament. 
In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt 
But, being seasoned with a gracious voice. 
Obscures the show of evil? In religion. 
What damned error, but some sober brow 



THE MERCHANT OE VENICE. 219 

Will bless it and approve" it with a text, 

Hiding the grossness with fair ornament? 

There is no vice so simple but assumes 

Some mark of virtue on his ^^ outward parts : 

How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false 

As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins 

The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars, 

Who, inward search'd, have livers white as milk ; ^^ 

And these assume but valour's excrement ''^ 

To render them redoubted ! Look on beauty, 

And you shall see 'tis purchased by the weight ; 

Which therein works a miracle in nature. 

Making them lightest that wear most of it : 

So are those crisped snaky golden locks 

Which make such wanton gambols with the wind, 

Upon supposed fairness, '^ often known 

To be the dowry of a second head, 

The skull that bred them in the sepulchre. 

Thus ornament is but the guiled '^ shore 

To a most dangerous sea ; the beauteous scarf 

Veiling an Indian beauty ; ''' in a word. 

The seeming truth which cunning times put on 

To entrap the wisest. Therefore, thou gaudy gold. 

Hard food for Midas, '^ I will none of thee ; 

Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge 

'Tween man and man : but thou, thou meagre lead. 

Which rather threatenest than dost promise aught, 

Thy plainness moves me more than eloquence ; 

And here chooss I : joy be the consequence ! 

Portia \^Aside\ . How all the other passions fleet to air, 
As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embraced despair. 
And shuddering fear, and green-eyed jealousy ! 

love, be moderate ; allay thy ecstasy ; 
In measure rain thy joy ; scant this excess. 

1 feel too much thy blessing : make it less, 
For fear I surfeit. 

Bassanio. What find I here? \Ope71ing the leaden casket. 

Fair Portia's counterfeit ! "^ What demi-god 
Hath come so near creation? Move these eyes? 
Or whether, riding; on the balls of mine, 



220 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Seem they in motion? Here are severed lips, 
Parted with sugar breath : so sweet a bar 
Should sunder such sweet friends. Here in her hairs 
The painter plays the spider and hath woven 
A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men 
Fasfer than gnats in cobwebs : but her eyes, — 
How could he see to do them? having made one, 
Methinks it should have power to steal both his 
And leave itself unfurnished. ^° Yet look, how far 
The substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow 
In underprizing it, so far this shadow 
Doth limp behind the substance. Here's the scroll, 
The continent ^^ and summary of my fortune, 

\Reads\ You that choose not by the view. 
Chance as fair and choose as true ! 
Since this fortune falls to you, 
Be content and seek no new. 
If you be well pleas'd with this 
And hold your fortune for your bliss, 
Turn you where your lady is 
And claim her with a loving kiss. 

A gentle scroll. Eair lady, by your leave ; 
I come by note,^^ to give and to receive. 
Like one of two contending in a prize, ^^ 
That thinks he hath done well in people's eyes, 
Hearing applause and universal shout. 
Giddy in spirit, still gazing in a doubt 
Whether those peals of praise be his or no, 
So, thrice-fair lady, stand I, even so; 
As doubtful whether what I see be true. 
Until confirm''d, sign'd, ratified by you. 

Portia. You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand, 
Such as I am : though for myself alone 
I would not be ambitious in my wish, 
To wish myself much better ; yet, for you 
I would be trebled twenty times myself; 
A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times 
More rich ; 
That only to stand high in your account, 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 221 

I might in virtues, beauties, livings, ^"^ friends. 
Exceed account ; but the full sum of me 
Is sum of — something, which, to term in gross, 
Is an unlesson'd girl, unschooPd, unpractised ; 
Happy in this, she is not yet so old 
But she may learn ; happier than this, 
She is not bred so dull but she can learn ; 
Happiest of all in that her gentle spirit 
Commits itself to yours to be directed. 
As from her lord, her governor, her king. 
Myself and what is mine to you and yours 
Is now converted : but now I was the lord 
Of this fair mansion, master of my servants. 
Queen o'er myself; and even now, but now, 
This house, these servants and this same myself 
Are yours, my lord : I give them with this ring ; 
Which when you part from, lose, or give away. 
Let it presage the ruin of your love 
And be my vantage to exclaim on you.^"* 

Bassanio. Madam, you have bereft me of all words, 
Only my blood speaks to you in my veins ; 
And there is such confusion in my powers 
As, after some oration fairly spoke 
By a beloved prince, there doth appear 
Among the buzzing pleased multitude ; 
Where every something, being blent together, 
Turns to a wild of nothing, save of joy, 
Expressed and not expressed. But when this ring 
Parts from this finger, then parts life from hence : 
Oh, then be bold to say Bassanio's dead ! 

Nerissa. My lord and lady, it is now our time, 
That have stood by and seen our wishes prosper, 
To cry, good joy : good joy, my lord and lady ! 

Gratiano. My lord Bassanio and my gentle lady, 
I wish you all the joy that you can wish ; 
For I am sure you can wish none from me : ^^ 
And when your honours mean to solemnize 
The bargain of your faith, I do beseech you, 
Even at that time I may be married too. 

Bassanio. With all my heart, so^'' thou canst get a wife. 



222 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Gratiano. I thank your lordship, you have got me one. 
My eyes, my lord, can look as swift as yours : 
You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid ; 
You lov'd, I lovM, for intermission"'^ 
No more pertains to me, my lord, than you. 
Your fortune stood upon the casket there, 
And so did mine too, as the matter falls ; 
For wooing here until I sweat again, 
And swearing till my very roof was dry 
With oaths of love, at last, if promise last,^^ 
I got a promise of this fair one here 
To have her love, provided that your fortune 
Achieved her mistress. 

Portia. Is this true, Nerissa? 

Nerissa. Madam, it is. so you stand pleas'd withal. 

Bassanio. And do you, Gratiano, mean good faith? 

Gratiano. Yes, faith, my lord. 

Bassanio. Our feast shall be much honoured in your marriage. 

Gratiano. But who comes here? Lorenzo and his infidel? 
What, and my old Venetian friend Salerio ? 

Elite?- Lorenzo, Jessica, and Salerio, a messeiige?- from 
Venice. 

Bassanio. Lorrenzo and Salerio, welcome hither; 
If that the youth of my new interest here 
Have power to bid you welcome. By your leave, 
I bid my very ■^° friends and countrymen. 
Sweet Portia, welcome. 

Portia. So do I, my lord : 

They are entirely welcome. 

Lorenzo. I thank your honour. For my part, my lord. 
My purpose was not to have seen you here ; 
But meeting with Salerio by the way. 
He did entreat me, past all saying nay, 
To come with him along. 

Salerio. I did, my lord ; 

And I have reason for it. Signor Antonio 
Commends him ^^ to you. {Gives Bassanio a letfe?' 

Bassanio. Ere I ope his letter, 

I pray you, tell me how my good friend doth. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 223 

Salerio. Not sick, my lord, unless it be in mind; 
Nor well, unless in mind : his letter there 
Will show you his estate. 3" 

Gratiano. Nerissa, cheer yon stranger ; bid her welcome. 
Your hand, Salerio: what's the news from Venice? 
How doth that royal merchant, good Antonio? 
I know he will be glad of our success ; 
We are the Jasons, we have won the fleece. 

Salerio. I would you had won the fleece that he hath lost. 

Portia. There are some shrewd ^^ contents in yon same paper, 
That steals the colour from Bassanio's cheek : 
Some dear friend dead ; else nothing in the world 
Could turn so much the constitution 
Of any constant ^^ man. What, worse and worse ! 
With leave, Bassanio ; I am half yourself. 
And I must freely have the half of anything 
That this same paper brings you. 

Bassanio. O sweet Portia, 

Here are a few of the unpleasant'st words 
That ever blotted paper ! Gentle lady, 
Wlien I did first impart my love to you, 
I freely told you, all the wealth 1 had 
Ran in my veins, I was a gentleman ; 
And then I told you true ; and yet, dear lady. 
Rating myself at nothing, you shall see 
How much I was a braggart. When I told you 
My state was nothing, I should then have told you 
That I was worse than nothing ; for indeed 
I have engaged myself to a dear friend, 
Engaged my friend to his mere ^^ enemy, 
To feed my means. Here is a letter, lady; 
The paper as the body of my friend. 
And every w'ord in it a gaping wound, 
Issuing life-blood. But is it true, Salerio ? 
Have all his ventures failed? What, not one hit? 
From Tripolis, from Mexico and England, 
From Lisbon, Barbary and India? 
And not one vessel scape the dreadful touch 
Of merchant-marring rocks ? 

Salerio. Not one, my lord. 



224 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Besides, it should appear, ^^ that if he had 
The present money to discharge the Jew, 
He would not take it. Never did I know 
A creature, that did bear the shape of man, 
So keen and greedy to confound ^7 a man : 
He plies the duke at morning and at night, 
And doth impeach the freedom of the state, ^^ 
If they deny him justice : twenty merchants, 
The duke himself, and the magnificoes ^^ 
Of greatest port, have all persuaded with him ; 
But none can drive him from the envious plea '^'^ 
Of forfeiture, of justice and his bond. 

Jessica. When I was with him I have heard him swear 
To Tubal and to Chus, his countrymen. 
That he "would rather have Antonio's flesh 
Than twenty times the value of the sum 
That he did owe him : and I know, my lord, 
If law, authority, and power deny not. 
It will go hard with poor Antonio. 

Portia. Is it your dear friend that is thus in trouble? 

Bassanio. The dearest friend to me, the kindest man. 
The best-condition'd *^' and unwearied spirit 
In doing courtesies, and one in whom 
The ancient Roman honour more appears 
Than any that draws breath in Italy. 

Portia, What sum owes he the Jew? 

Bassanio. For me three thousand ducats. 

Portia. What, no more ? 

Pay him six thousand, and deface the bond ; Jj 

Double six thousand, and then treble that, ^ 

Before a friend of this description 
Shall lose a hair through my Bassanio's fault. 
First go with me to church and call me wife, 
And then away to Venice to your friend ; 
For never shall you lie by Portia's side 
With an unquiet soul. You shall have gold 
To pay the petty debt twenty times over : 
When it is paid, bring your true friend along. 
My maid Nerissa and myself meantime 
Will live as maids and \vidows. Come, away ! 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 22^ 

For you shall hence upon your wedding day : 
Bid your friends welcome, show a merry cheer : "^^ 
Since you are dear bought, I will love you dear. 
But let me hear the letter of your friend. 

Bassanio. l^jReads^ " Sweet Bassanio, my ships have all miscarried, 
my creditors grow cruel, my estate is very low, my bond to the Jew is 
forfeit ; and since in paying it, it is impossible I should live, all debts 
are cleared between you and I,'*^ if I might but see you at my death. 
Notwithstanding, use your pleasure : if your love do not persuade you 
to come, let not my letter." 

Portia. O love, dispatch all business, and be gone ! 

Bassanio. Since I have your good leave to go away, 
I will make haste : but, till I come again. 

No bed shall e'er be guilty of my stay, 

No rest be interposer 'twixt us twain. \_Exeiint. 



Scene III. Venice. A street. 
Enter Shylock, Salarino, Antonio, and Gaoler. 

Shylock. Gaoler, look to him : tell not me of mercy ; 
This is the fool that lent out money gratis : 
Gaoler, look to him. 

Antonio. Hear me yet, good Shylock. 

Shylock. Til have my bond ; speak not against my bond : 
I have sworn an oath that I will have my bond. 
Thou call'dst me dog before thou hadst a cause ; 
But, since I am a dog, beware my fangs : • 

The duke shall grant me justice. I do wonder, 
Thou naughty gaoler, that thou art so fond ' 
To come ^ abroad with him at his request. 

Antonio. I pray thee, hear me speak. 

Shylock. Til have my bond ; I will not hear thee speak ; 
ril have my bond ; and therefore speak no more. 
I'll not be made a soft and dull-eyed ^ fool. 
To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield 
To Christian intercessors. Follow not ; 
ril have no speaking; I will have my bond. [Exz't. 

Salarino. It is the most impenetrable cur 
That ever kept "* with men. 



226 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Antonio. Let him alone : 

ni follow him no more with bootless prayers. 
He seeks my life ; his reason well I know : 
I oft delivered from his forfeitures 
Many that have at times made moan to me ; 
Therefore he hates me. 

Salarino. I am sure the duke 

Will never grant this forfeiture to hold. 

Antonio. The duke cannot deny the course of law : ^ 
For the commodity ^ that strangers have 
With us in Venice, if it be denied, 
Will much impeach the justice of his state ; 
Since that the trade and profit of the city 
Consisteth of all nations. Therefore go : 
These griefs and losses have so bated '' me, 
That I shall hardly spare a pound of flesh 
To-morrow to my bloody creditor. 
Well, gaoler, on. Pray God, Bassanio come 
To see me pay his debt, and then I care not ! \_Exeunt. 

Scene IV. Behnont. A room in Portia's house. 
E7iter Portia, Nerissa. Lorenzo, Jessica, and Balthasar. 

Lorenzo. Ma'dam, although I speak it in your presence, 
You have a noble and a true conceit ^ 
Of god-like amity ; which appears most strongly 
In bearing thus the absence of your lord. 
But if you kne^v to whom vou show this honour, 
How true a gentleman you send relief. 
How dear a lover ^ of my lord your husband, 
I know you would be prouder of the work 
Than customary bounty can enforce you. ^ 

Portia. I never did repent for doing good, 
Nor shall not now : for in companions 
That do converse and waste the time together, 
Whose souls do bear an equal yoke of love, 
There must be needs a like proportion 
Of lineaments, of manners and of spirit ; 
Which makes me think that this Antonio, 
Beinef the bosom lover of mv lord, 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 22/ 

Must needs be like my lord. If it be so, 

How little is tlie cost I have bestow'd 

In purchasing the semblance of my soul 

From out the state of hellish misery ! 

This comes too near the praising of myself: 

Therefore no more of it : hear other things. 

Lorenzo, I commit into your hands 

The husbandry and manage"^ of my house 

Until my lord's return : for mine own part, 

I have toward heaven breath *d a secret vow 

To live in prayer and contemplation, 

Only attended by Nerissa here, 

Until her husband and my lord's return : 

There is a monastery two miles off; 

And there will we abide. I do desire you 

Not to deny this imposition, ^ 

The which my love and some necessity 

Now lays upon you. 

Lorenzo. Madam, with all my heart: 

I shall obey you in all fair commands. 

Portia. My people do already know my mind, 
And will acknowledge you and Jessica 
In place of Lord Bassanio and myself. 
And so farewell, till we shall meet again. 

Lorenzo. Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you ! 

Jessica. I wish your ladyship all heart's content. 

Portia. I thank you for your wish, and am well pleased 
To wish it back on you : fare you well, Jessica. 

{^Exeunt Jessica and Lorenzo. 
Now, Balthasar, 

As I have ever found thee honest-true, 
So let me find thee still. Take this same letter. 
And use thou all the endeavour of a man 
In speed to Padua : ^ see thou render this 
Into my cousin's hand. Doctor Bellario ; 
And, look, what notes and garments he doth give thee. 
Bring them, I pray thee, with imagined speed '^ 
Unto the tranect,'^ to the common ferry 
Which trades to Venice. Waste no time in words, 
But get thee gone : I shall be there before thee. 



228 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Balthasar. Madam, I go with all convenient ^ speed. \^Exit. 

Portia. Come on, Nerissa ; I have vv^ork in hand 
That you yet know not of: we'll see our husbands 
Before they think of us. 

Nerissa, Shall they see us? 

Portia. They shall, Nerissa; but in such a habit, 
That they shall think we are accomplished 
With that we lack. PU hold thee any wager, 
When we are both accoutred like young men, 
Pll prove the prettier fellow of the two. 
And wear my dagger with the braver grace. 
And speak between the change of man and boy 
With a reed voice, '° and turn two mincing steps 
Into a manly stride, and speak of frays 
Like a fine bragging youth, and tell quaint " lies, 
How honourable ladies sought my love, 
Which I denying, they fell sick and died ; 
I could not do withal ; '^ then I'll repent, 
And wish, for all that, that I had not kill'd them ; 
And twenty of these puny lies Pll tell, 
That men shall swear I have discontinu'd school 
Above a twelvemonth. I have within my mind 
A thousand raw '^ tricks of these bragging Jacks,'"* 
Which I will practise. 

But come, Pll tell thee all my whole device '^ 
When I am in my coach, which stays for us 
At the park gate ; and therefore haste away, 
For we must measure twenty miles to-day. {Exeunt. 



Scene V. The same. A garden. 

Enter Launcelot and Jessica. 

Launcelot. Yes, truly; for, look you, the sins of the fathers are 
to be laid upon the children: therefore, I promise ye, I fear you.' I 
was always plain with you, and so now I speak my agitation ^ of the 
matter: therefore be of good cheer, for truly I think you are damned. 
There is but one hope in it that can do you any good ; and that is but 
a kind of base hope neither. 

Jessica. And what hope is that, I pray thee? 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 229 

Launcelot. Marry, you may partly hope that you are not tlie 
Jew's daughter. 

Jessica. That were a kind of base hope, indeed: so the sins of 
my mother should be visited upon me. 

Launcelot. Truly then I fear you are damned both by father 
and mother : thus when I shun Scylla, your father, I fall into Charyb- 
dis,^ your mother: well, you are gone both ways. 

Jessica. I shall be saved by my husband ; ^ he hath made me a 
Christian. 

Launcelot. Truly, the more to blame he : we were Christians 
enow 5 before ; e'en as many as could well live, one by another. This 
making of Christians will raise the price of hogs : if we grow all to 
be pork-eaters, we shall not shortly have a rasher^ on the coals for 
money. 

Enter Lorenzo. 

Jessica. Til tell my husband, Launcelot, what you say : here he 
comes. 

Lorenzo. I shall grow jealous of you shortly, Launcelot. 

Jessica. Nay, you need not fear us, Lorenzo : Launcelot and I are 
out. 7 He tells me flatly, there is no mercy for me in heaven, because 
I am a Jew's daughter : and he says, you are no good member of the 
commonwealth, for in converting Jews to Christians, you raise the price 
of pork. 

Lorenzo. I think the best grace of wit will shortly turn into si- 
lence, and discourse grow commendable in none only but parrots. Go 
in, sirrah ; bid them prepare for dinner. 

Launcelot. That is done, sir: they have all stomachs. 
. Lorenzo. Goodly Lord, what a wit-snapper are you! then bid 
them prepare dinner. 

Launcelot. That is done too, sir ; only " cover"" is the word. 

Lorenzo. Will you cover then, sir? 

Launcelot. Not so, sir, neither ; I know my duty.^ 

Lorenzo. Yet more quarrelling with occasion ^ ! Wilt thou show 
the whole wealth of thy wit in an instant? I pray thee, understand a 
plain man in his plain meaning : go to thy fellows ; bid them cover the 
table, serve in the meat, and we will come in to dinner. 

Launcelot. For the table, sir, it shall be served in ; for the 
meat, sir, it shall be covered ; for your coming in to dinner, sir, why, 
let it be as humours and conceits shall govern. \_Exit. 

Lorenzo. O dear discretion, '° how his words are suited ! 



230 EXGLISH LITERATURE. 

The fool Iiath planted in his raemor\' 

An army of good words : and I do know 

A many'' fools, that stand in better place, 

Garnish"d '- like him. that for a tricksy word 

Defy the matter.'-^ How cheer"st thou.'"^ Jessica? 

And now. good sweet, say th\" opinion, 

How dost thou like the Lord Bassanio's wife ? 

Jessica. Past all expressing. It is very meet 
The Lord Bassanio live an upright life : 
For. having such a blessing in his lady. 
He linds the ioys of heaven here on earth ; 
And if on earth he do not merit it, then 
In reason he should never come to heaven. 
Why. if two gods should play some heavenly match 
And on the wager lay two earthly women. 
And Portia one. there must be something else 
Pawn'd with the other, for the poor rude world 
Hath not her fellow. 

Lorenzo. Even such a husband 

Hast thou of me as she is for a wife. 

Jessica. Xay. but ask my opinion too of that. 

Lorenzo. 1 will anon : lirst. let us go to dinner. 

Jessica Xay. let me praise you while I have a stomach 

Lorenzo. X'o.'pray thee, let it serve for table-talk ; 
Then, howsoe'er thou speak'st. 'mong other things 
1 shall digest it. 

Jessica. Well. Til set you forth. '^ {Exeunt. 

ACT IV. 

Scene I. Veuke. A coin't of justice. 

Enter the Duke, the Magnificoes, Antonio. Bassanio, 
Gratiano, Salerio, and others. 

Dcke. What, is Antonio here? 

Antonio. Ready, so please your grace. 

Duke. I am sorry for thee : thou art come to answer 
A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch 
L'ncapable ' of pity, void and empty 
From anv dram of mercv. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 23 1 

Antonio. I have heard 

Your grace hath ta'en great pains to qualify^ 
His rigorous course ; but since he stands obdurate 
And that ^ no lawful means can carry me 
Out of his envy's reach, ^ I do oppose 
My patience to his fury, and am arm'd 
To suffer, with a quietness of spirit, 
The very tyranny and rage of his. 

Duke. Go one, and call the Jew into court. 

Salerio. He is ready at the door: he comes, my lord. 

Efiter Shylock. 

Duke. Make room, and let him stand before our face. 
Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too, 
That thou but lead'st this fashion of thy malice 
To the last hour of act : and then 'tis thought 
ThouUt show thy mercy and remorse ^ more strange 
Than is thy strange apparent cruelty ; 
And where ^ thou now exact'st the penalty, 
Which is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh, 
Thou wilt not only loose '' the forfeiture. 
But, touch'd with human gentleness and love, 
Forgive a moiety ^ of the principal ; 
Glancing an eye of pity on his losses. 
That have of late so huddled on his back, 
Enow to press a royal merchant down 
And pluck commiseration of his state 
From brassy bosoms and rough hearts of flint, 
From stubborn Turks and Tartars, never trainM 
To offices of tender courtesy. 
We all expect a gentle answer. Jew. 

Shylock. I have possessed your grace of what I purpose, 
And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn 
To have the due and forfeit of my bond : 
If you deny it, let the danger light 
Upon your charter ^ and your city's freedom. 
You'll ask me, why I rather choose to have 
A weight of carrion flesh than to receive 
Three thousand ducats : I'll not answer that : 
But, say, it is my humour: is it answer'd? 



232 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

What if my house be troubled with a rat, 

Am I be pleased to give ten thousand ducats 

To have it baned ? What, are you answer'd yet? 

Some men there are love not a gaping pig ; ^° 

Some, that are mad if they behold a cat ; 

Some, when they hear the bagpipe : for affection, 

Mistress of passion/' sways it to the mood 

Of what it likes or loathes. Now, for your answer: 

As there is no firm reason to be render'd. 

Why he cannot abide a gaping pig ; 

Why he, a harmless necessary cat ; 

Why he, a woollen bagpipe ; but of force 

Must yield to such inevitable shame 

As to offend, himself being offended ; 

So can I give no reason, nor I will not, 

jNIore than a lodg'd ^^ hate and a certain loathing 

I bear Antonio, that I follow thus 

A losing suit against him. Are you answer'd ? 

Bassaxio, This is no answer, thou unfeeling man, 
To excuse the current '^ of thy cruelty. 

Shylock. I am not bound to please thee with my answers. 

Bassanio. Do all men kill the things they do not love.'* 

Shylock. Hates any man the thing he would not kill? 

Bassanio. Every offence is not a hate at first. 

Shylock. What, wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice ? 

Antonio. I pray you, think you question '"^ with the Jew : 
You may as well go stand upon the beach 
And bid the main flood '^ bate his usual height ; 
You may as well use question with the w'olf 
Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb ; 
You may as well forbid the mountain pines 
To wag their high tops and to make no noise. 
When they are fretten ^^ with the gusts of heaven ; 
You may as well do anything most hard, 
As seek to soften that — than which what's harder? — 
His Jewish heart : therefore, I do beseech you, 
Make no more offers, use no farther means, 
But with all brief and plain conveniency ^-^ 
Let me have judgment ^^ and the Jew his will. 

Bassanio. For thv three thousand ducats here is six. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 233 

Shylock. If every ducat in six thousand ducats 
Were in six parts and every part a ducat, 
I would not draw them ; I would have my bond. 

Duke. How shalt thou hope for mercy, rendering none ? 

Shylock. What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong,? 
You have among you many a purchas'd slave, 
Which, like your asses and your dogs and mules, 
You use in abject and in slavish parts, '^ 
Because you bought them : shall I say to you, 
Let them be free, marry them to your heirs? 
Why sweat they under burthens ? let their beds 
Be made as soft as yours and let their palates 
Be seasoned with such viands ? You will answer 
" The slaves are ours : " so do I answer you : 
The pound of flesh, which I demand of him. 
Is dearly bought ; 'tis mine and I will have it. 
If you deny me, fie upon your law ! 
There is no force in the decrees of Venice. 
I stand for judgment : answer ; shall I have it ? 

Duke. Upon my power ^° I may dismiss this court, 
Unless Bellario, a learned doctor, 
Whom I have sent for to determine^' this. 
Come here to-day. 

Salerio. My lord, here stays without 

A messenger with letters from the doctor. 
New come from Padua. 

Duke. Bring us the letters ; call the messenger. 

Bassanio. Good cheer, Antonio! What, man, courage yet! 
The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones, and all, 
Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood. 

Antonio. I am a tainted wether of the flock, 
Meetest for death : the weakest kind of fruit 
Drops earliest to the ground ; and so let me : 
You cannot better be employed, Bassanio, 
Than to live still and write mine epitaph. • 

Enter Nerissa, dj-essed like a lawyer's clerk. 
Duke. Came you from Padua, from Bellario ? 
Nerissa. From both, my lord. Bellario greets your grace. 

{Presenting a letter. 



234 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Bassanio. Why dost thou- whet thy knife so earnestly? 
Shylock. To cut forfeiture from that bankrupt there. 
Gratiano- Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh Jew, 
Thou makest thy knife keen ; but no metal can. 
No, not the hangman's^" axe, bear half the keenness 
Of thy sharp envy.-^ Can no prajers pierce thee? 

Shylock. No, none that thou hast wit^"* enough to make. 
Gratiano. O, be thou damn"d, inexecrable ^^ dog! 
And for thy life let justice be accused."^ 
Thou almost makest me wavier in my faith 
To hold opinion with Pythagoras,"^ 
That souls of animals infuse themselves 
Into the trunks of men : thy currish spirit 
Governed a wolf, who, hang'd ^^ for human slaughter. 
Even from the gallows did his fell ^^ soul fleet,^" 
And, whilst thou lay'st in thy unhallow'd dam, 
Infused itself in thee ; for thy desires 
Are wolvish, bloody, starved and ravenous. 

Shylock. Till thou canst rail the seal from off my bond, 
Thou but offendst^' th}^ lungs to speak so loud : 
Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall 
To cureless ruin. I stand here for law. 

Duke. This letter from Bellario doth commend 
A 3-oung and learned doctor to our court. 
Where is he? 

Nerissa. He attendeth here hard by, 
To know your answer, whether you'll admit him. 

Duke. With all my heart. Some three or four of you 
Go give him courteous conduct to this place. 
Meantime the court shall hear Bellario's letter. 

Clerk. \Reads^ -'Your Grace shall understand that at the re- 
ceipt of your letter I am very sick : but in the instant that your mes- 
senger came, in loving visitation was with me a 5'oung doctor of 
Rome ; his name is Balthasar. I acquainted him with the cause in 
controversy between the Jew and Antonio the merchant : we turned 
o'er many books together: he is furnished with my opinion; w'hich, 
bettered with his own learning, the greatness whereof I cannot enough 
commend, comes with him, at my importunity, to fill up 2- your grace's 
request in my stead. I beseech you, let his lack of years be no im- 
pediment to let him lack -'^ a reverend estimation: for I never knew 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 235 

so young a body with so old a head. I leave him to }our gracious 
acceptance, whose trial shall better publish his commendation.'" 

Duke. You hear the learn'd Bellario, what he writes : 
And here, 1 take it, is the doctor come. 

Enter Portia, dressed like a doctor of laws. 

Give me your hand. Came you from old Bellario ? 

Portia. 1 did, my lord. 

Duke. You are welcome : take your place.^"* 

Are you acquainted with the difference 
That holds this present question ^5 in the court? 

Portia. I am informed throughly of the cause. 
Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew 1 

Duke. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth. 

Portia. Is your name Shylock? 

Shylock. Shylock is my name. 

Portia. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow ; 
Yet in such rule ^*^ that the Venetian law 
Cannot impugn ^'' you as you do proceed. 
You stand within his danger, 3^ do you not? 

Antonio. Ay, so he says. 

Portia. Do you confess the bond? 

Antonio. I do. 

Portia. Then must the Jew be merciful. 

Shylock. On what compulsion must I ? tell me that. 

Portia. The quality of mercy is not strain'd,^^ 
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 
Upon the place beneath ; it is twice blest ; 
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes : 
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest : it becomes 
The throned monarch better than his crown ; 
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power. 
The attribute to awe and majesty. 
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; 
But mercy is above this sceptred sway ; 
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings. 
It is an attribute to God himself; 
And earthly power doth then show likest God's 
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 
Though justice be thy plen, consider this, 



236 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

That, in the course of justice, none of us 

Should see salvation : we do pray for mercy ; 

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 

The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much 

To mitigate the justice of thy plea ; 

Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice 

Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there. 

Shylock. My deeds upon my head ! I crave the law. 
The penalty and forfeit of my bond. 

Portia. Is he not able to discharge the money? 

Bassanio. Yes, here I tender it for him in the court 
Yea, twice the sum : if that will not suffice, 
I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er, 
On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart: 
If this will not suffice, it must appear 
That malice bears down truth. 4° And I beseech you, 
Wrest once the law to your authority : 
To do a great right, do a little wrong. 
And curb this cruel devil of his will. 

Portia. It must not be ; there is no power in Venice 
Can alter a decree established : 
'Twill be recorded for a precedent, 
And many an error by the same example 
Will rush into the State : it cannot be. 

Shylock. A Daniel ^^ come to judgment ! yea, a Daniel ! 
O wise young judge, how I do honour thee ! 

Portia. I pray you, let me look upon the bond. 

Shylock. Here 'tis, most reverend doctor, here it is. 

Portia. Shylock, there's thrice thy money offer'd thee. 

Shylock. An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven : 
Shall I lay perjury upon my soul? 
No, not for Venice. 

Portia. Why, this bond is forfeit ; 

And lawfully by this the Jew may claim 
A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off 
Nearest the merchant's heart. Be merciful : 
Take thrice thy money ; bid me tear the bond. 

Shylock. When it is paid according to the tenour. 
It doth appear you are a worthy judge ; 
You know the law, your exposition 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 23/ 

Hath been most sound : I charge you by the law, 
Whereof you are a well -deserving pillar, 
Proceed to judgment : by my soul I swear 
There is no power in the tongue of man 
To alter me : I stay here on my bond. 

Antonio. Most heartily I do beseech the court 
To give the judgment. 

Portia. Why then, thus it is : 

You must prepare your bosom for his knife. 

Shvlock. O noble judge ! O excellent young man I 

Portia. For the intent and purpose of the law 
Hath full relation"*" to the penalty 
Which here appeareth due upon the bond. 

Shylock. ' Tis very true : O wise and upright judge ! 
How much more elder ^'^ art thou than thy looks ! 

Portia. Therefore lay bare your bosom. 

Shylock. Ay, his breast : 

So says the bond : doth it not, noble judge? 
" Nearest his heart : "" those are the very words. 

Portia. It is so. Are there balance"^"* here to weigh 
The flesh ? 

Shylock. I have them ready. 

Portia. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge, '*5 
To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death. 

Shylock. Is it so nominated in the bond? 

Portia. It is not so expressed: but what of that? 
'Twere good you do so much for charity. 

Shylock. I cannot find it ; 'tis not in the bond. 

Portia. You, merchant, have you any thing to say? 

Antonio. But little : I am arm'd and well preparM. 
Give me your hand, Bassanio : fare you well ! 
Grieve not that I am falPn to this for you ; 
For herein Fortune shows herself more kind 
Than is her custom : it is still her use ^^ 
To let the wretched man outlive his wealth, 
To view with hollow eye and wrinkled brow 
An age of poverty ; from which Hngering penance 
Of such misery doth she cut me off. 
Commend me to your honourable wife : 
Tell her the process of Antonio's end ; 



2^6 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Say how I loved you, speak me' fair in death ; '^^ 
And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge 
Whether Bassanio had not once a love. 
Repent but you that you shall lose your friend, 
And he repents not that he pays your debt ; 
For if the Jew do cut but deep enough, 
I'll pay it presently with all my heart."^^ 

Bassanio. Antonio. I am married to a wife 
Which is as dear to me as life itself: 
But life itself, my wife, and all the world, 
Are not with me esteemed above thy life : 
I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all 
Here to this devil, to deliver you. 

Portia. Your wife would give you little thanks for that, 
If she were by, to hear you make the offer. 

Gratiano. I have a wdfe, whom. I protest, I love : 
I would she were in heaven, so she could 
Entreat some power to change this currish Jew. 

Nerissa . 'Tis well you offer it behind her back ; 
The wish would make else an unquiet house. 

Shylock. \^Aside\ These be the Christian husbands. I have a 
daughter ; 
Would any of the stock of Barrabas 
Had been her husband rather than a Christian 
\AIoua\ We trifle time : I pray thee, pursue sentence. 

Portia. A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine : 
The court awards it, and the law doth give it. 

Shylock. Most rightful judge ! 

Portia. And you must cut this flesh from off his breast : 
The law allows it, and the court awards it. 

Shylock. Most learned judge ! A sentence ! Come, prepare I 

Portia. Tarry a little : there is something else. 
This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood ; 
The words expressly are " a pound of flesh : '"■ 
Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh ; 
But. in the cutting it, if thou dost shed 
One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods 
Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate 
Unto the state of Venice. 

Gratiano. O upright judge I Mark, Jew ; O learned judge I 



THE MERCHANT OE VENICE. 239 

Shylock. Is that the law? 

Portia. Thyself shalt see the act : 

For, as thou urgest justice, be assured 
Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest. 

Gratiano. O learned judge ! Mark, Jew : a learned judge ! 

Shylock. I take this offer, then ; pay the bond thrice 
And let the Christian go. 

Bassanio. Here is the money. 

Portia. Soft ! 
The Jew shall have all justice ; soft I no haste : 
He shall have nothing but the penalty. 

Gratiano. O Jew ! an upright judge, a learned judge! 

Portia. Therefore prepare thee to cut off the flesh. 
Shed thou no blood, nor cut thou less nor more 
But just a pound of flesh : if thou cut'st more 
Or less than a just ^"^ pound, be it but so much 
As makes it light or heavy in the substance, 5° 
Or the division of the twentieth part 
Of one poor scruple, nay, if the scale do turn 
But in the estimation of a hair. 
Thou diest and all thy goods are confiscate. 

Gratiaxo. a second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew ! 
Now, infidel, I have you on the hip. 

Portia. Why, doth the Jew pause? take thy forfeiture. 

Shylock. Give me my principal, and let me go. 

Bassanio. I have it ready for thee ; here it is. 

Portia. He hath refused it in the open court : 
He shall have merely justice and his bond. 

Gratiano. A Daniel, still say I, a second Daniel! 
I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word. 

Shylock. Shall I not have barely my principal? 

Portia. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture. 
To be so taken at thy peril, Jew. 

Shylock. Why, then the devil give him good of it ! 
ril stay no longer question. ♦ 

Portia. Tarry, Jew : 

The law hath yet another hold on you. 
It is enacted in the laws of Venice, 
If it be proved against an alien 
That by direct or indirect attempts 



240 EXGLISH LITERATURE. 

He seek the life of any citizen, • 

The party 'gainst the which he doth contrive ^^ 

Shall seize one half his goods : the other half 

Comes to the pri\-}- coffer of the state : 

And the offender's life lies in the mercy 

Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice. 

In which predicament, I say, thou stand'st ; 

For it appears, by manifest proceeding, 

That indirectly and directly too 

Thou hast contrived against the very life 

Of the defendant : and thou hast incurr'd 

The danger formerly ^^ by me rehears'd. 

Down therefore and beg mercy of the duke. 

Gratiaxo. Beg that thou mayst have leave to hang thyself: 
And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state, 
Thou hast not left the value of a cord : 
Therefore thou must be hang'd at the state's charge. 

Duke. That thou shalt see the difference of our spirits, 
I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it : 
For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's ; 
The other half comes to the general state. 
Which humbleness may drive unto a fine.^^ 

Portia. Ay. for the state, not for Antonio. 

Shylock. Nay, take my life and all : pardon not that : 
Yoa take my house when you do take the prop 
That doth sustain my house : you take my life 
When you do take the means whereby I live. 

Portia. What mercy can you render him, Antonio? 

Gratiaxo. A halter gratis : nothing else, for God's sake. 

AxTOXio. So please my lord the duke and all the court • 
To quit the fine for one half of his goods, 
I am content ; so he will let me have 
The other half in use,^-^ to render it. 
Upon his death, unto the gentleman 
That lately stole his daughter : 
Two things provided more, that, for this favour. 
He presently become a Christian : 
The other, that he do record a gift, 
Here in the court, of all he dies possessed. 
Unto his son Lorenzo and his daughter. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 24 1 

Duke. He shall do this, or else I do recant 
The pardon that I late pronounced here. 

Portia. Art thou contented, Jew? what dost thou say? 

Shylock. I am content. 

Portia. Clerk, draw a deed of gift. 

Shylock. I pray you, give me leave to go from hence ; 
I am not well : send the deed after me, 
Ar^d I will sign it. 

Duke. Get thee gone, but do it. 

Gratiano. In christening shalt thou have two godfathers ; 
Had I been judge, thou shouldst have had ten more,^^ 
To bring thee to the gallows, not the font. \^Exit Shylock. 

Duke. Sir, I entreat you home with me to dinner. 

Portia. I humbly do desire your grace of pardon: 
I must away this night toward Padua, 
And it is meet I presently set forth. 

Duke. I am sorry that your leisure serves you not.^^ 
Antonio, gratify 57 this gentleman. 
For, in my mind, you are much bound to him. 

{Exeu7it Duke and his train. 

Bassanio. Most worthy gentleman, I and my friend 
Have by your wisdom been this day acquitted 
Of grievous penalties ; in lieu whereof, 
Three thousand ducats, due unto the Jew, 
We freely cope^^ your courteous pains withal. 59 

Antonio. And stand indebted, over and above. 
In love and service to you evermore. 

Portia. He is well paid that is well satisfied ; 
And I, delivering you, am satisfied 
And therein do account myself well paid : 
My mind was never yet more mercenary. '^° 
I pray you, know me when we meet again : 
I wish you well, and so I take my leave. 

Bassanio. Dear sir, of force ''' I must attempt ^^ you further : 
Take some remembrance of us, as a tribute 
Not as a fee : grant me two things, I pray you. 
Not to deny me, and to pardon me. 

Portia. You press me far, and therefore I will yield. 
\/ro Antonio] Give me your gloves, I'll wear them for your sake ; 
\^To Bassanio] And, for your love, Pll take this ring from you : 



242 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Do not draw back your hand ; -Fll take no more ; 
And you in love shall not deny me this. 

Bassanio. This ring, good sir, alas, it is a trifle ! 
I will not shame myself to give you this. 

Portia. I will have nothing else but only this ; 
And now methinks I have a mind to it. 

Bassanio. There's more depends on this than on tlie value. 
The dearest ring in Venice will I give you, 
And find it out by proclamation : 
Only for this, I pray you, pardon me. 

Portia. I see, sir, you are liberal in offers : 
You taught me first to beg ; and now methinks 
You teach me how a beggar should be answer'd. 

Bassanio. Good sir, this ring was given me by my wife ; 
And when she put it on, she made me vow 
That I should neither sell nor give nor lose it. 

Portia. That ^scuse^^ serves many men to save their gifts. 
An if ^"^ your wife be not a mad- woman. 
And know how well I have deserved the ring. 
She would not hold out enemy for ever, 
For giving it to me. Well, peace be with you ! 

\_ExejiJit Portia ajid Nerissa. 

Antonio. My Lord Bassanio, let him have the ring : 
Let his deservings'and my love withal 
Be valued 'gainst your wife's commandment. 

Bassanio. Go, Gratiano, run and overtake him ; 
Give him the ring, and bring him, if thou canst. 

Unto Antonio's house : away! make haste. [Zf.r// Gratiano. 

Come, you and I will thither presently ; 
And in the morning early will we both 
Fly toward Belmont : come, Antonio. {^Exeunt. 



Scene II. The same. A street. 

Ejtter Portia a7id Nerissa. 

Portia. Inquire the Jew's house out, give him this deed 
And let him sign it : we'll away to-night 
And be a day before our husbands home : 
This deed will be well welcome to Lorenzo. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 243 

Enter Gratiano. 

Gratiano. Fair sir, you are well o'erta'en : 
My Lord Bassanio upon more advice ' 
Hath sent you here this ring, and doth entreat 
Your company at dinner. 

Portia. That cannot be : 

His ring I do accept most thankfully : 
And so, I pray you, tell him : furthermore, 
I pray you, show ray youth old Shylock's house. 

Gratiano. That will I do. 

Nerissa. Sir, I would speak with you. 

S^Aside to Portia] FU see if I can get my husband's ring, 
Which I did make him swear to keep for ever. 

Portia. [. /j/V/t' to Nerissa] Thou may'st, I warrant. We shall 
have old swearing^ 
That they did give the rings away to men ; 
But we'll outface them, and outswear them too. 
\Aloud~\ Away! make haste: thou know'st where I will tarry. 

Nerissa. Come, good sir, will you shew me to this house? 

\_Exe2int. 

ACT V. 
Scene F Belmo7it. Avenue to Portia's house. 

Enter Lorenzo and Jessica. 

Lorenzo. The moon shines bright : in such a night as this, 
When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees 
And they did make no noise, in such a night 
Troilus ' methinks mounted the Troyan walls 
And sigh'd his soul toward the Grecian tents, 
Where Cressid lay that night. 

Jessica. In such a night 

Did Thisbe " fearfully o'ertrip the dew 
And saw the lion's shadow ere himself 
And ran dismayed away. 

Lorenzo. In such a night 

Stood Dido ^ with a willow in her hand 
Upon the wild sea banks and wav'd her love 
To come a^ain to Carthao-e. 



244 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Jessica. In such a night 

Medea "^ gathered the enchanted herbs 
That did renew old yEson. 

Lorenzo. In such a night 

Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew 
And with an unthrift love did run from Venice 
As far as Belmont. 

Jessica. In such a night 

Did young Lorenzo swear he loved her well, 
Stealing her soul with many vows of faith 
And ne'er a true one. 

Lorenzo. In such a night 

Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew, 
Slander her love, and he forgave it her. 

Jessica I would out-night ^ you, did no body come ; 
But, hark, I hear the footing of a man. 

Enter Stephano. 

Lorenzo. Who comes so fast in silence of the night? 

Stephano. A friend. 

Lorenzo. A friend ! what friend? your name, I pray you, friend? 

Stephano. Stephano is my name ; and I bring word 
My mistress will before the break of day 
Be here at Belmont : she doth stray about 
By holy crosses,^ where she kneels and prays 
For happy wedlock hours. 

Lorenzo. Who comes with her? 

Stephano. None but a holy hermit and her maid. 
I pray you, is my master yet returned ? 

Lorenzo. He is not, nor we have not heard from him. 
But go we in, I pray thee, Jessica, 
And ceremoniously let us prepare 
Some welcome for the mistress of the house. 

Enter Launcelot. 
Launcelot. Sola, sola! wo ha, ho! sola, sola! 
Lorenzo. Who calls? 

Launcelot. Sola! did you see Master Lorenzo? Master Lo- 
renzo, sola, sola ! 
Lorenzo. Leave hollaing^, man : here. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 245 

Launcelot. Sola! where? where? 

Lorenzo. Here. 

Launcelot. Teil him there's a post come from my master, with 
his horn full of good news : my master will be here ere morning. 

\_Exit. 

Lorenzo. Sweet soul, let's in, and there expect ^ their coming. 
And yet no matter : why should we go in ? 
My friend Stephano, signify, I pray you. 
Within the house, your mistress is at hand ; 

And bring your music forth into the air. {^Exit Stephano. 

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank ! 
Here will we sit and let the sounds of music 
Creep in our ears : soft stillness and the night 
Become the touches of sweet harmony. 
Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven 
Is thick inlaid with patines^ of bright gold : 
There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st 
But in his motion like an angel sings, "^ 
Still quiring '° to the young-eyed cherubins ; 
Such harmony is in immortal souls ; 
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. 

Elite}' Musiciatis. 
Come, no! and wake Diana'' with a hymn: 
With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear 
And draw her home with music. \JMiisic. 

Jessica. I am never merry when I hear sweet music. 

Lorenzo. The reason is,, your spirits are attentive : 
For do but note a wild and wanton herd, 
Or race of youthful and unhandled colts. 
Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud, 
Which is the hot condition of their blood ; 
If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound, 
Or any air of music touch their ears, 
You shall perceive them make a mutual '^ stand, 
Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze 
By the sweet power of music : therefore the poet 
Did feign that Orpheus '^ drew trees, stones and floods ; 
Since nought so stockish,'"^ hard and full of rage. 



246 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

But music for the time doth change his nature. 

The man that hath no music in himself, 

Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, 

Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils ; ^^ 

The motions of his spirit are dull as night 

And his aiTections dark as Erebus : '^ 

Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music. 

Enter Portia and Nerissa. 

Portia. That light we see is burning in my hall. 
How far that little candle throws its beams I 
So shines a good deed in a naughty world. 

Nerissa. When the moon shone, we did not see the candle. 

Portia. So doth the greater glory dim the less : 
A substitute shines brightly as a king 
Until a king be by, and then his state 
Empties itself, as doth an inland brook 
Into the main of waters. Music! hark! 

Nerissa. It is your music, madam, of the house. 

Portia. Nothing is good, I see, without respect : ^7 
Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day. 

Nerissa. Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam. 

Portia. The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark 
When neither is attended,'^ and I think 
The nightingale, if she should sing by clay. 
When every goose is cackling, would be thought 
No better a musician than the wren. 
How many things by season seasoned are "^ 
To their right praise and true perfection ! 
Peace, ho ! the moon sleeps with Endymion ^° 
And would not be awaked. \_Mjisic ceases. 

Lorenzo. That is the voice. 

Or I am much deceived, of Portia. 

Portia. He knows me as the blind man knows the cuckoo, 
By the bad voice. 

Lorenzo. Dear lady, welcome home. 

Portia. We have been praying for our husbands' healths, 
Which speed, we hope, the better for our words. 
Are they returned? 

Lorenzo. Madam, they are not yet ; 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 247 

But there is come a messenger before, 
To signify their coming. 

Portia. Go in, Nerissa; 

Give order to my servants that they take 
No note at all of our being absent hence ; 
Nor you, Lorenzo; Jessica, nor you. \A tucket^'^ sounds. 

Lorenzo. Your husband is at hand ; I hear his trumpet : 
We are no tell-tales, madam ; fear you not. 

Portia. This night methinks is but the daylight sick ; 
It looks a little paler : 'tis a day, 
Such as the day is when the sun is hid. 

Enter Bassanio, Antonio, Gratiano, and their followers. 

Bassanio. We should hold day with the Antipodes, 
If you would walk in absence of the sun.^^ 

Portia. Let me give light, but let me not be light ; 
For alight wife doth make a heavy husband. 
And never be Bassanio so for me : 
But God sort all ! ^^ You are welcome home, my lord. 

Bassanio. I thank you, madam. Give welcome to my friend. 
This is the man, this is Antonio, 
To whom I am so infinitely bound. 

Portia. You should in all sense ^^ be much bound to him, 
For, as I hear, he was much bound for you. 

Antonio. No more than I am well acquitted of. 

Portia. Sir, you are very welcome to our house : 
It must appear in other ways than words, 
Therefore I scant this breathing courtesy. ^^ 

Gratiano. [ 7}? Nerissa] ^'^ By yonder moon I swear you do 
me wrong ; 
In faith, I gave it to the judge's clerk : 
Would he w-ere dead that had it, for my part. 
Since you do take it, love, so much to heart. 

Portia. A quarrel, ho, already! what's the matter? 

Gratiano. About a hoop of gold, a paltry ring 
That she did give me, whose posy^'' was 
For all the world like cutler's poetry 
Upon a knife, " Love me, and leave me not.''' 

Nerissa. What talk you of the posy or the value? 
You swore to me, when I did give it vou. 



248 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

That you would wear it till your hour of death 
And that it should lie with you in your grave : 
Though not for me, yet for your vehement oaths, 
You should have been respective ^^ and have kept it. 
Gave it a judge's clerk ! no, God's my judge, 
The clerk will ne'er wear hair on's face that had it. 

Gratiano. He will, an if he live to be a man. 

Nerissa. Ay, if a woman live to be a man. 

Gratiano. Now, by this hand, I gave it to a youth, 
A kind of boy, a little scrubbed boy, 
No higher than thyself, the judge's clerk, 
A prating boy, that begg'd it as a fee : 
I could not for my heart deny it him. 

Portia. You were to blame, I must be plain with you, 
To part so slightly with your wife's first gift ; 
A thing stuck on with oaths upon your finger 
And so riveted with faith unto your flesh. 
I gave my love a ring and made him swear 
Never to part with it ; and here he stands ; 
I dare be sworn for him he would not leave it 
Nor pluck it from his finger, for the wealth 
That the world masters. Now, in faith, Gratiano, 
You give your wife too unkind a cause of grief: 
An 'twere to me, I sliould be mad at it. 

Bassanio. [Aside'] Why, I were best to cut my left hand off 
And swear I lost the ring defending it. 

Gratiano. My Lord Bassanio gave his ring away 
Unto the judge that begg'd it and indeed 
Deserved it too : and then the boy, his clerk. 
That took some pains in writing, he begg'd mine ; 
And neither man nor master would take aught 
But the two rings. 

Portia. What ring gave you, my lord? 

Not that, I hope, which you received of me. 

Bassanio. If I could add a lie unto a fault, 
I would deny it ; but you see my finger 
Hath not the ring upon it ; it is gone. 

Portia. Even so void is your false heart of truth. 
By heaven, I will never be your wife 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 249 

Nerissa. No, nor I yours 

Til] I again see mine. 

Bassanio. Sweet Portia, 

If you did know to whom I gave the ring, 
If you did know for whom I gave the ring, 
And would conceive for what I gave the ring, 
And how unwillingly I left the ring. 
When nought would be accepted but the ring. 
You would abate the strength of your displeasure. 

Portia. If you had known the virtue of the ring, ^^ 
Or half her worthiness that gave the ring. 
Or your own honour to contain 2° the ring. 
You would not then have parted with the ring. 
What man is there so much unreasonable, 
If you had pleased to have defended it 
W^ith any terms of zeal, wanted^' the modesty 
To urge the thing held as a ceremony P^^ 
Nerissa teaches me what to believe : 
ril die fort but some woman had the ring. 

Bassanio. No, by my honour, madam, by my soul, 
No woman had it, but a civil doctor, ^-^ 
Which did refuse three thousand ducats of me 
And begg'd the ring ; the which I did deny him 
And suffered him to go displeas'd away ; 
Even he that did uphold the very life 
Of my dear friend. What should I say, sweet lady? 
I was enforced to send it after him ; 
I was beset with shame and courtesy ; '^^ 
My honour would not let ingratitude 
So much besmear it. Pardon me, good lady; 
For, by these blessed candles of the night, 
Had you been there, I think you would have begg'd 
The ring of me to give the worthy doctor. 

Portia. Let not that doctor e'er come near my house : 
Since he hath got the jewel that I loved, 
And that which you did swear to keep for me, 
I will become as liberal as you ; 
ril not deny him any thing I have. 

Antonio. I am the unhappy subject of these quarrels. 

Portia. Sir, grieve not you ; you are welcome notwithstanding. 



250 EXGLISH LITERATURE. 

Bassanio. Portia, forgive me this enforced wrong ; 
And, in the hearing of these many friends, 
I swear to thee, even by thine own fair eyes. 
Wherein I see myself — 

Portia. Mark you but that ! 

In both my eyes he doubly sees himself; 
In each eye. one : swear by your double self. 
And there's an oath of credit. 

Bassanio. Nay. but hear me : 

Pardon this fault, and by my soul I swear 
I never more will break an oath with thee. 

Antonio. I once did lend my body for his wealth : ^5 
Which, but for him that had your husband's ring, 
Had quite miscarried : I dare be bound again, 
My soul upon the forfeit, that your lord 
Will never more break faith advisedly. ^^ 

Portia. Then you shall be his surety. Give him this. 
And bid him keep it better than the other. 

Axtoxio. Here. Lord Bassanio : swear to keep this ring. 

Bassanio. By heaven, it is the same I gave the doctor! 

Portia. You are all amazed : 
Here is a letter : read it at your leisure : 
It comes from Padua, from Bellario : 
There you shall find that Portia was the doctor, 
Nerissa there her clerk : Lorenzo here 
Shall witness I set forth as soon as you 
And even but now return'd : I have not yet 
Enter'd my house. Antonio, you are welcome ; 
And I have better news in store for you 
Than you expect : unseal this letter soon ; 
There you shall find three of your argosies 
Are richly^'' come to harbour suddenly : ^^ 
You shall not know by what strange accident 
I chanced on this letter. 

Antonio. I am dumb. 

Bassanio. Were you the doctor and I knew you not? 

Gratiano. Were you the clerk and yet I knew you not? 

Antonio. Sweet lady, you have given me life and living ; ^"^ 

For here I read for certain that my ships 
Are safelv come to road. 



THE MEKCHANT OF VENICE. 25 I 

Portia. How now, Lorenzo ! * 

My clerk hath some good comforts too for )'ou. 

Nerissa. Ay, and I'll give them him without a fee. 
There do I give to you and Jessica, 
From the rich Jew, a special deed of gift. 
After his death, of all he dies possessed of. 

Lorenzo. Fair ladies, you drop manna in the way 
Of starved people. 

Portia. It is almost morning. 

And yet I am sure you are not satisfied 
Of these events at full. '^^ Let us go in ; 
And charge us there upon inter'gatories. 
And we will answer all things faithfully. "^' 

Gratiano. Well, while I live Til fear no other thing 
So sore as keeping safe Nerissa's ring. \_Exeunt. 



252 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



NOTES TO THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 

The essential thing in the drama is action. It is thus distinguished from 
the epic, \\hich narrates heroic deeds, and from the lyric, which expresses 
intense emotion. The drama presents a series of grave or humorous incidents 
that terminate in a striking result. Its ultimate basis is found in our natural 
love of imitation; and hence it is not restricted to any race or age or country. 
India and China, Greece and Rome, no less than modern nations, delighted 
in dramatic exhibitions, and produced a notable dramatic literature. Ob- 
viously the drama is not inherently evil; and if it has often been con- 
demned by pagan sage and Christian teacher, the condemnation has been 
evoked by the degeneracy and dissoluteness of the stage. 

The principal species of the drama are tragedy and comedy. Tragedy 
represents an important and serious action, which usually has a fatal termi- 
nation; it appeals to the earnest side of our nature, and moves our deepest 
feelings. Comedy consists in a representation of light and amusing inci- 
dents; it exhibits the foibles of individuals, the manners of society, and the 
humorous accidents of life. The laws of the drama are substantially the 
same for both tragedy and comedy. There must be unity in the dramatic 
action. This requires that the separate incidents contribute in some way to 
the development of the plot and to the final result or deiioiieiiieiit. A col- 
lection of disconnected scenes, no matter how interesting in themselves, 
would not make a drama. 

The action of the drama should exhibit movement or progress, in which 
several stages may be clearly marked. The introduction acquaints us, more 
or less fully, with the subject to be treated. It usually brings before us some 
of the leading characters, and shows us the circumstances in which they are 
placed. In the "Merchant of Venice," for example, the First Scene reveals 
Antonio's ventures at sea, and Bassanio's desire to ^^•oo the fair Portia, which 
facts furnish the basis of the subsequent action. After the introduction fol- 
lows the growth or development of the action toward the climax. From the 
days of Aristotle, this part of the drama has been called the tying of the 
knot, and it needs to be managed with great care. If the development is 
too slow, the interest lags; if too rapid, the climax appears tame. The inter- 
est of a drama depends in large measure upon the successful arrangement of 
the climax. In our best dramas it usually occurs near the middle of the piece. 



NOTES TO THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 253 

In the " Merchant of Venice " it is reached in the Third Scene of the Third 
Act, where Antonio is in prison and Shylock will not hear of mercy. From 
this point the action proceeds to the close or denouement. The knot is un- 
tied ; the complications in which the leading characters have become involved 
are either happily removed, or lead to an inevitable catastrophe. Avoiding 
every digression, the action should go forward rapidly, in order not to weary 
the patience and dissipate the interest of the spectator. The denouement 
should not be dependent upon some foreign element introduced at the last 
moment; but should spring naturally from the antecedent action. 

In the " Merchant of Venice," the knot is untied at the end of the Fourth 
Act, where the over-reaching malice of Shylock meets its punishment, and 
the noble Antonio is triumphantly vindicated. But as Schlegel remarks, " the 
poet was unwilling to dismiss his audience with the gloomy impressions which 
Antonio's acquittal — effected with so much difftculty — and the condemna- 
tion of Shylock were calculated to leave behind them; he therefore added 
a Fifth Act by way of a musical afterlude to the piece itself." 

In addition to unity of action, which is obviously the indispensable law of 
the drama, two other unities have been prescribed from a very early day. 
The one is unity of time, which requires that the action fall within the 
limits of a single day; the other is unity of place, which requires that the 
action occur in the same locality. While evidently artificial and dispensable, 
these latter unities conduce to clear and concise treatment. Among the 
Greeks and Romans the three unities, as they are called, were strictly 
observed; they have been followed also by the French drama; but the Eng- 
lish stage, breaking away in the days of Elizabeth from every artificial restric- 
tion, recognizes unity of action alone. The " Merchant of Venice " includes 
a period of three months. 

Act I. — Scene I. 

1. In sooth = in truth. A. S. soih.^ truth. Ci. foi'sooth, soothsayer. 

2. IVant-wit = foolish, idiotic. This unaccountable sadness of Antonio 
has been called the keynote of the play. It forbodes coming disaster. 

3. Ado = trouble. Contraction of Mid. Eng. at do. 

4. Argosies = merchant vessels. From Argo, the name of the ship 
which carried Jason to Colchis in search of the Golden Fleece. 

5. Signiors = lords. From Lat. senior, elder, through the Italian. 

6. Pageants = shows, spectacles. Originally the movable scaffolds used 
in the miracle plays. 

7. Over peer = tower above, look over. 

8. Venture = hazard, risk; especially, something sent to sea in trade. 
Etymologically, a headless form of adventure. 

9. Sti/t = constantly. 



254 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

10. Roads = places where ships ride at anchor. A. S. rod, road. 

11. ]]'calthy Andreiii dock\i in j^awf/ = richly freighted ship stranded. 
The name is probably taken from Andrea Doria, a famous Genoese admiral. 

12. F<:7?7/«^^ = lowering. A headless form of the Fr. avalcr^ from Lat. 
ad vallcin, to the valley. 

13. Straight = at once, immediately. A. S. streccan^ to stretch. 

14. Worth this refers to some expressive gesture. 

15. Bottom = merchant vessel. 

16. yanus = a Latin deity represented with two faces looking in oppo- 
site directions. January is named after him. See Webster. 

17. Peep through their eyes, because half shut with laughter. 

18. OtJier = others; frequentl}' used as a plural in Shakespeare. 

19. Nestor = the gravest and oldest of the Grecian heroes at the siege of 
Troy. 

20. jP;vzv;;/t'r/ = anticipated. This is the old sense; \iovi\Yx. prevenir, 
Lat. prae, before, and vejiire, to come. 

21. £ji-(ftW?V/^ j/;-tf;/^<? = exceedingly strange-like, quite strangers. Ex- 
ceeding is often used as an adverb by Shakespeare. 

22. Respect upon = regard, consideration for. 

23. Play the fool ^ ?lc\. the part of the fool, as seen in old comedies. 
His function was to show the comic side of things. 

24. Mantle = become covered, as with a mantle. 

25. Do has who understood as its subject. The whole line may be ren- 
dered thus: And who do maintain an obstinate silence. 

26. Opinion of wisdom = reputation for wasdom. 

27. Conceit = thought. In Shakespeare this word is used for thought, 
conception, imagination, but never in the sense of vanity. 

28. As who should say = as if one should say; who being indefinite. 

29. A reference to Matt. v. 22. "Whosoever shall say, Thou fool, shall 
be in danger of hell fire." If these silent persons should speak, they would 
provoke their hearers to say "thou fool," and thus bring them into danger 
of condemnation. 

30. Gudgeon = a small fish that is easily caught. See Webster. 

31. ]\Ioe = more. 

32. Gear = matter, business, purpose. In Act II, Scene 2, we find : 
" Well, if Fortune be a woman, she's a good wench for this gear.'" 

33. Somethi?ig = somewhat. This use is common in Shakespeare. 

34. Swelling port = great state, ostentatious manner of living. 

35. Rate = manner, style. 

36. 6"^^^= engaged, pledged. 

37. Still = constantly. See note 9. 



NOTES TO THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 255 

3S. \\'ithi)i tJic eye of honour = within the range of what is honorable. 

39. Self-same JJigJit = made for tlie same range, having the same length, 
weight, and feathering. 

40. Advised = C2it&{\x\., considerate. 

41. To find the other forth = to find the other out. 

42. Childhood proof = test or experiment of childhood. 

43. Wilful = obstinate in extravagance. Owing to the obscurity, " wit- 
less " and " wasteful " have been suggested for wilful. 

44. That self way = that same w-ay. This use of self is frequent in 
Shakespeare. 

45. Circuinstanee = circumlocution. 

46. In making questiouy etc. = in questioning my readiness to do my 
utmost for you. 

47. /';v5/= ready. O. Fr. /;'d>^/, now /;r/, ready. 

48. Richly left=^ with a large inheritance. 

49. Sometimes = formerly. Sometimes and sometime were used indiffer- 
ently by Shakespeare in this sense. 

50. Nothing u)idervalued = not at all inferior. 

51. Brutus' Portia. See Shakespeare's Julius Cesar, in which Portia 
is a prominent character. 

52. Colchos'' strand. Colchis was situated at the eastern extremity of the 
Black Sea. Thither, according to Grecian mythology, Jason was sent in 
quest of the golden fleece, which, though it was guarded by a sleepless 
dragon, he succeeded in obtaining. The Argonautic expedition is referred 
to again in Act III. Scene 2: " We are the Jasons, we have won the fleece." 

53. With one of them = as one of them. 

54. Thrift = success. 

55. Commodity = property, merchandise. 

56. Presently = instantly, immediately. 

57. Of my trust, etc. = on my credit as a merchant or as a personal 
favor. 



Scene II. 

1. Troth = truth, of which it is an old form. 

2. Nor refuse none. — We should now say. Nor refuse any. But the 
double negative had not yet disappeared from English in Shakespeare's day. 

3. Level at = guess, aim at. 

4. Colt = wild, rough youth 

5. Appropriation ^ credit. 

6. Coujity Palatine = Count Palatine. 



256 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

7. Weeping philosopJier = Heraclitus; so called because he wept over the 
follies of mankind.- Democritus, who laughed at them, was called "The 
laughing philosopher." 

8. By = of, about, concerning — a not unfrequent use of the word. 

9. Say to is here playfully used in a different sense from that which 
Nerissa meant. 

10. Proper = handsome. 

1 1 . Stiited = dressed. 

12. Doublet = ^ close-fitting coat, with skirts reaching a little below the 
girdle. 

13. Ro laid hose = coverings for the legs. Doublet atid hose is equivalent 
to coat and breeches. 

14. Bonnet = hat or head-dress. Since Shakespeare's day bonnet and 
hat have changed places. 

15. Sealed under, that is, as surety he placed his name under that of the 
principal. There seems to be a sly hit at the constant assistance which the 
French promised the Scotch in their quarrels with the English. 

16. ^7/ = if. 

17. .S/i6'«/<:/ = would. These words were not fully differentiated by 
Shakespeare. 

18. Contrary = wrong. So in "King John," IV. 2: " Standing on slip- 
pers which his nimble haste had falsely thrust upon contrary feet." 

19. Sort = manner; or, possibly, lot, as in " Troilus and Cressida," I. 3: 
" Let blockish Ajax draw the sort to fight with Hector." 

20. Imposition =^ imposed condition. 

21. Sibylla is erroneously used as a proper noun. A sibyl was a woman 
supposed to be endowed with a spirit of prophecy. The reference here is to 
one to whom Apollo promised as many years of life as there were grains of 
sand in her hand. 

22. Fotw is probably an oversight, as there were six of the strangers. 

23. Condition = disposition, temper. This is a common meaning of the 
word in Shakespeare. 

24. Shrive = to administer confession and absolution. 

Scene III. 

I. Dticats = corns first issued in the duchy of Apulia. From O. Fr. 
ducat =^\\.2i\. ducato^'Lovf Lat. ducatus, duchy. So called because when 
first coined, about A.D. 1 140, they bore the legend, " Sit tibi, Chiiste, datus, 
quem tu regis, iste ducatzts.'" — Skeat. The Venetian silver ducat was worth 
about one dollar. 



NOTES TO THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 257 

2. May yoti stead me =^ Q.z.n you help me. May originally expressed 
ability. 

3. A good man = a solvent man, one able to meet his obligations. 

4. In supposition = in doubtful form, being risked at sea. 

5. I!ia/to = the Exchange of Venice. From fivo alto, higher shore. 
The name was originally applied to the chief island in Venice. 

6. Squandered ^=%z?>.\Xq.x&^^ dispersed; this was the original sense of the 
word. 

7. Referring to the permission given the devils to enter into the herd of 
swine. Matt. viii. 32. 

8. Usance = interest. 

9. Catch tipon the hip = to get into one's power; a phrase used by 
wrestlers. 

10. Interest was a term of reproach in Shakespeare's day, as tistiry is 
now. It was held disreputable to take compensation for the use of money, 
inasmuch, as it was said, "it is against nature for money to beget money." 

11. Rest you fair = may you have fair fortune. 

12. Excess = that which is paid in excess of the sum lent. 

13. Ripe zuants ^= wants that require immediate attention. 

14. Fossess\i = informed. 

15. Methought ^\\. seemed to me. From A. S. thincan = to seem. 
To think comes from A. S. thencan. 

16. The third, counting Abraham as the first. Gen. xxvii. 

17. Compromised ^= agreed. 

18. E an li ng = \a.mh just brought forth. Yeanling is another form of 
the word. From A. S. eanian, to bring forth. 

19. See Gen. xxx. 31-43. 

20. Inserted, that is, in the Scriptures. 

21. These lines are spoken aside, while Shylock is occupied with his 
calculations. 

22. Beholding = beholden, indebted. Shakespeare always uses the form 
in ing, beholden occurring not a single time in his writings. 

23. Gaberdine = a coarse smock-frock or upper garment. 

24. Go to = come; a phrase of exhortation. 

25. Breed ^= interest, money ^r^^ f rom the principal. 

26. Who is here without a verb. This use of the relative with a supple- 
mentary pronoun was not uncommon. " Which though it be not true, yet I 
forbear to note any deficiencies." — Bacon. 

27. Doit = a small Dutch coin, worth about a quarter of a cent. 

28. Condition = agreement. 

29. Equal = exact, equally balanced. 



258 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

30. Dwell = continue, abide. 

31. Teaches \% usually regarded as a mistake, having the plural subject 
dealings. But Abbott regards it as an old Northern plural, which ended in cs. 

32. Break his day = fail to fulfil his engagement. 

33. Fearful guard ^ protection to be feared. 

34. Hie —- haste. 

ACT II. — Scene I. 

1. i1/?5/2i,? = dislike, which Shakespeare commonly uses. Mislike is 
found only three times. 

2. JFhose blood is reddest. — Red blood was regarded as a sign of cour- 
age. Macbeth calls one of his frightened soldiers a ^^ lily-livered ho-^.'' 

3. Fear''d =^ terrified. Fear was often used transitively in this sense. 

4. Best-regarded^ most esteemed. 

5. A'ice = fastidious, fanciful. She intimates that judgment has some- 
thirjg to do with her choice. 

6. Scanted^ limited, restricted. 

7. fFzV= wisdom. A. S. zuitan, io know. ^^IVill'" has been sug- 
gested as an emendation. 

8. 6'/6i(?(/= would stand. 

9. Sophy = a common name for the emperor of Persia. 

10. Siiltan Solynian. — Probably Solyman the Magnificent, who reigned 
from 1520 to 1566. 

11. Z/c7^(7jr was the servant of Hercules. 

12. Alcides = another name for Hercules. So called because a descen- 
dant of Alceus. 

13. Advised = deliberate, careful. 

14. Te/uple = chmch, in which the prince was to take the oath just 
spoken of. 

Scene II. 

1. Via = away! Italian, from Lat. via, a way, 

2. For the heavens = for Heaven's sake. 

3. Gro7v to = '^ Si household phrase applied to milk when burnt to the 
bottom of the saucepan, and thence acquiring an unpleasant taste." — -Clark 
AND Wright. 

4. God /'less the i)iark^=- a parenthetic apology for some coarse or pro- 
fane remark. 

5. ///rV7r//<^?/ =: incarnate ; intended as a ludicrous blunder. A number 
of others occur in this scene. 



NOTES TO THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 259 

6. Sand-blind =\\divmg a defect of sight, causing the appearance of 
small particles flying before the eyes. "High-gravel-blind" is an effort 
at wit. 

7. Confusions =^ co\\c\\x%\ons', another Gobboism. "To try conclu- 
sions" means to make experiments. 

8. A/arry^= a corruption of Mary; originally a mode of swearing by 
the Virgin, but here a mere expletive. 

9. Sonties = saints, of which it is probably a corruption. 

10. Raise the waters^ raise a storm or commotion. 

11. Master was a title of respect that meant something in Shakespeare's 
day; hence Gobbo scruples to bestow it upon his son. 

12. What a'' ivill ^ what he will. 

13. Ergo = therefore. 

14. /^;zV=Anit; that is, if it. 

15. Father. — As young people often used this term of address in speak- 
ing to old men, Gobbo did not recognize his son. 

16. Hovel- post = a post to support a hovel or shed. 

17. Stand up. — Launcelot had been kneeling, and, according to an old 
tradition, with his back to his father, who mistook the hair of his head for a 
beard. 

18. Fill-horse = thill-horse, the horse that goes between the thills or 
shafts. 

19. Set tip my rest =^ made up my mind. "A metaphor taken from a 
game, where the highest stake the parties were disposed to venture was 
called the rest.'''' 

20. Give Die. — The nic is a dative of indirect personal reference, called 
in Latin the dativus ethicus. 

21. Graviercy = great thanks. A corruption of the Yxeno^a grand nierci. 

22. Infection = affection or inclination ; another Gobboism. 

23. Cater-cousins = an expression of difficult explanation. Commonly 
regarded as a corruption of the French quatre-cousins., fourth cousins. 

24. Frutify = certify, the word aimed at. 

25. Impertinent = pertinent, as he means. 

26. Defect = effect. 

27. Preferr\i = recommended for promotion. 

28. The old proverb = " The grace of God is gear enough." 

29. C?^tf;7/^'</= braided, trimmed. 

30. Table = palm of the hand, on which Launcelot is gazing. As 
Hudson explains, this " table doth Jiot only promise, but offer to swear upon 
a book, that I shall have good fortune." 

31. line of life = the line passing around the base of the thumb. 



26o ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

32. Edge of a feather-bed =^ an absurd variation of " edge of the sword." 

33. Liberal =^ free, reckless. 

34. Skipping = ixoX\Q.'i,on\&. 

35. With jiiy hat. — Hats were worn at meals; but while grace was say- 
ing, they were taken off and held over the eyes. 

36. Civility = refinement. 

37. Sad osteiit = grave demeanor. 

Scene III. 
I. Exhibit = inhibit, as he means. 

Scene IV. 

1. Spohe as yet, etc. = bespoken torch-bearers for us. 

2. ^An = if. 

3. Break tip = break open. 

4. Provideth of ^^ provided with. The prepositions of, with, and by were 
often used interchangeably. 

Scene V. 

1. Bid forth = invited out. 

2. Reproach = approach — a GolJfjoism. 

3. Black-Monday. " In the 34th of Edward III., the 13th of April, 
and the morrow after Easter-day, King Edward, with his host, lay before the 
city of Paris; which day was full of dark mist and hail, and so bitter cold, 
that many men died on their horses' backs with the cold. Wherefore unto 
this day it hath been called Black-Monday.^^ — Stov^E, as quoted by Hudson. 

4. Eife = ^iex, probably. A writer in 1618 says: "A fifer is a wry- 
neckt musician." 

5. Jacob'' s staff. — "By faith Jacob, when he was a dying, blessed both 
the sons of Joseph; and worshipped, leaning upon the top of his staff." 
Heb. xi. 21. 

6. (9/y^ai'/m^ = for feasting. 

7. Hagar^s offspring =^Gen\.i\e?,. 

8. Patch = professional jester or fool; so called from his motley or 
patched dress. 

Scene VI. 

1. Out-dwells — out-stays. 

2. Venus'' pigeons. — The chariot of Venus was drawn by doves. 

3. Obliged = pledged, bound by contract. 



NOT£S TO THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 26 1 

4. Scarfed = decked with flags. 

5. Over-7veat/ier'd = weather-beaten. 

6. Abode = tarrying. 

7. Who = whom. Shakespeare often omits the inflection. 

8. Exchajige^ that is, of apparel. 

9. Good sooth = in good truth. 

10. C/ose = secret. 

11. BeshreTc we = curse me, used as a mild imprecation. 

12. On't= of it. 

Scene VII. 

1. JVho ^ -which. In the Elizabethan age, 7vho and which were not 
fully differentiated. Which was often used of persons, as loho of things. 
" Our father ivhich art in heaven." Matt. vi. 9. 

2. As blunt, that is, as the " dull lead." 

3. Rated by thy estimation = valued by thy reputation. 

4. Z^/i-rt/V/«^= disparaging. 

5. This shrine. — Portia is compared to a saint's shrine, which pilgrims 
often made long journeys to kiss. 

6. Hyrcanian deserts ^=^ din extended wilderness region lying south of 
the Caspian Sea. 

7. Ten times tmdervalued. — This refers to silver, which in 1600 stood 
to gold in the proportion of ten to one in value. 

8. Inscidp\i upon = graven on the outside. The angel was in relief, 
and represented St. Michael piercing the dragon. The value of the coin was 
about ten shillings. 

9. Carrion Death =-■ a skull from which the flesh has disappeared. 
10. Tart = depart. 

Scene VIII. 

1. Tassion = passionate outcry. 

2. A'eep his day, that is, the day fixed for the payment of the borrowed 
money. 

3. Reasoned = talked, conversed. 

4. You were best = it were best for you. 

5. Slubber = do carelessly, slur over. 

6. Riping^^ ripeness. 

7. Mind of love =^ loving mind. 

8. C^/^«/^= manifestations. 

9. Conveniently = fitly, suitably. 

10. Sensible = sensitive, deeply moved. 



262 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

11. Quicken his ciithraccd heaviness = enliven the sadness which he has 
embraced or given up to. 

12. Do we so = let us do so. This is an imperative, 1st person, plural. 

Scene IX. 

1. 6*/r«z^/^/ = straightway, at once. 

2. Election = choice. 

3. Address'' d nie = prepared myself, made ready. 

4. Fortune nozo, etc. = Success now to my heart's hope ! 

5. By = of. These two prepositions were not yet fully differentiated. 

6. Martlet = the house-martin. 

7. Jninp with = agree with. 

8. Ruin = refuse, rubbish. 

9. To offend, and judge, etc. That is, the offender cannot sit in judg- 
ment on his own case. 

10. I wis ^= I know. This is a blunder form for ywis, izvis, meaning 
certainly. "It is particularly to be noted," says Skeat, "that the commonest 
form in MSS. is iwis, in which the prefix (like most other prefixes) is fre- 
quently written apart from the rest of the word, and not unfrequently the i 
is represented by a capital letter so that it appears as / ivis. Hence, by an 
extraordinary error, the / has often been mistaken for the 1st per. pron., and 
the verb wis, to know, has been thus created, and is given in many 
dictionaries ! ' ' 

11. You are sped'^^ you are undone. 

12. By the time ^ in proportion to the time. 

13. Wroth = suffering, misery. 

14. Aly lord is in jesting response to the servant's inquiry, " Where is 
my lady ? ' ' 

15. Sensible regreets = tangible or substantial greetings. 

16. C^w;;/^;z(/j = compliments. 

17. Yet =up to this time. 

18. /'f?^/ = postman, courier. 

19. Lord Love = Cupid. 

ACT III. — Scene I. 

1. The Goodwills = the Goodwin Sands, off the eastern coast of Kent. 

2. Knapped ginger ^^ 'i,x\■^c^^^tA or broke-up ginger — a favorite condi- 
ment with old people. 

3. Wings she flew withal = the clothes in which she eloped. 



iVOTES TO THE MERCHANT OE VENICE. 262, 

4. Complexion = natural disposition. 

5. Ma tell = bargain. 

6. S/niig=^ spruce, trim, studiously neat. 

7. Hindered ??ie, etc. = kept me from gaining half a million ducats. 

8. Frankfort ^ Frankfort-on-the-Maine, noted for its fairs. 

9. /// that = in that one diamond. 

10. Ttcrqiioise ^ a mineral, brought from Persia, of a peculiar bluish- 
green color, susceptible of a high polish, and much esteemed as a gem. It 
was formerly supposed to fade or brighten with the wearer's health, and to 
change with the decay of a lover's affection. 



Scene II. 

1. 7^(?rj'7fcr« = perjured. 

2. Beshrew = curse upon — used as a harmless imprecation. 

3. C erlook' d ?ne — bewitched, fascinated me. 

4. Prove it so = if it prove so. 

5. Peize — retard, delay. From Fr. />eser, to weigh. 

6. Eear= doubt; that is, whether I shall ever enjoy. 

7. Swan-like end. — An allusion to the belief that swans sing just before 
they die. 

S. Flourish. — The coronation of English sovereigns is announced by a 
flourish of trumpets. 

9. Alcides— Hercules. He rescued Hesione, daughter of Laomedon, 
when she was exposed as a sacrifice to appease the wrath of Neptune; and 
this he did, not from love, but for the reward of two horses promised by her 
father. 

10. Dardanian ivives^^ Trojan women. 

11. Approve == prove, justify. 

12. His = its. 

13. Livers ivhite as milk = an expression indicative of cowardice. Fal- 
staff speaks of " the liver white and pale, which is the badge of pussillanimity 
and cowardice." 

14. Excre77ient = the beard. From Lat. ex cr esc ere, to grow out. 

15. Supposed fairness = fictitious beauty. 

16. Guiled = beguiling. 

17. Indian beauty. — This has been regarded a troublesome expression. 
"Dowdy," "gypsy," "favor," "visage," "feature," have been suggested 
in place of beauty. The difficulty seems to be removed by placing the em- 
phasis on Indian, and regarding it as used in a derogatory sense. An Indian 
beauty, after all, is not apt to be a very desirable person. 



264 EXGLISH LITERATURE. 

18. Food for Midas. Midas prayed that everything he touched might 
turn to gold. His prayer being granted, he found himself without food, and 
prayed Bacchus to revoke the favor. 

19. Counterfeit = portrait. 

20. Leave itself unfurnisli' d, that is, with a companion. 

21. Continent ^= that which contains, container. 

22. I come by note = I come by written warrant. 

23. Ln a prize = for a prize. 

24. Livings =^ estates, possessions. 

25. Vantage to exclaim on yon = warrant to cry out against you. 

26. Xone from me=^ none away from me. 

27. ^;? = if , provided that. 

28. Intermission = pause, delay. 

29. If projnise last = if promise hold : a play on words, often weak, so 
common in Shakespeare. 

30. Very = true. O. Fr. verai, from Lat. vcrax, true. 

31. ^zV/; = himself . 

32. Estate =^ condition, state. 

33. Shrewd = evil. 

34. Constant = firm, steadfast. 

35. Mere^^ absolute, thorough. Lat. ?neri<s, pure, unmixed. 

36. Should appear = would appear. 

37. Confound = ruin, destroy. 

38. Impeach the freedom, etc. = denies that strangers have equal rights 
in the city. 

39. Magnificoes of greatest port = grandees of highest rank. 

40. Envious plea ^ malicious plea. 

41. Best-co?idition''d = htsi disposed. The superlative here is carried 
over also to unioearied. 

42. Cheer =^ countenance. 

43. Yon and I. This mistake is not uncomm.on in Shakespeare and 

other writers of the time. ^ 

Scene III. % 

1 . Fond = foolish. This is the original sense of the word. 

2. To co?ne^= as to come. ^ 

3. Dtill-eyed = sin^idi, wanting in perception. 

4. A'^//^ dwelt. 

5. Deny the course of laiu = refuse to let the law take its course. 

6. Cotfimodity = traffic, commercial relations. 

7. Bated= lowered, reduced. 



i 



NOTES TO THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 26$ 

Scene IV. 

1. G?;zc^// ^ idea, conception. 

2. Lover = friend. A common signification. 

3. Customary bounty can enforce ji'^// = ordinary benevolence can 
make you feel. 

4. Husbandry and manage = stewardship and management. 

5. Imposition = task or duty imposed. 

6. Padua was famous for the learned jurists of its university. 

7. Imagined speed ^^ speed of thought or imagination. 

8. Tranect^\hQ name of the place where "the common ferry" or 
ferry-boat set out for Venice. 

9. Cc«z/<?wzV;//= proper, suitable. 

10. Reed voice =^ shrill, piping voice. 

1 1 . Quaint = ingenious, elaborate. 

12. / could not do withal = I could not help it. 

13. Ra7a = crude, unskilful. 

14. Jacks = a common term of contempt. 

15. All my whole device. — A pleonasm not infrequent in Shakespeare. 

Scene V. 

1. Fear yoti^= ic^ii iox yon. 

2. Agitation = cogitation — another blunder of Launcelot's. 

3. Scylla = a rocky cape on the west coast of southern Italy. Charybdis 
is a celebrated whirlpool on the opposite coast of Sicily. Hence the frequent 
saying, " He falls into Scylla who seeks to avoid Charybdis." 

4. I shall be saved, etc. — A reference, probably, to I Cor. vii. 14 : " The 
unbelieving wife is sanctified by the husband." 

5. Enow = enough. 

6. Rasher = a thin slice of bacon. 

7. Are out = have fallen out, quarrelled. 

8. / kno2o my duty. — Launcelot plays on the double meaning of 
"cover," namely, to lay the table, and to put on one's hat. 

9. Quarrelling with occasion = using every opportunity to make per- 
verse replies. 

10. Discretions^ discrimination. 

11. A many. — This phrase is still used, though rarely, by poets. It is 
found in Tennyson's " Miller's Daughter," and Rolfe quotes from Gerald 

Massey : — 

" We've known a many sorrows, Sweet ; 
We've wept a many tears." 



266 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

12. Garnish'' d ^= furnished, equipped. 

13. Defy tlie Diattcr ^=^ set the meaning at defiance. 

14. How cheer st tJiou = what spirits are you in? 

15. Set yoH forth ^ describe you fully. 

ACT IV.— Scene I. 

1. . Uncapable. — Shakespeare uses also incapable. With a considerable 
number of words, the English prefix tin and the Latin prefix ?';; were used 
indifferently; as, uncertain, incertain; ungrateful, ingrateful. 

2. Qualify = modify, moderate. 

3. And that ^ and since. It is not unusual for the Elizabethan writers 
to use that in place of repeating a preceding conjunction. " Though my soul 
be guilty and that I think," etc. — Ben Jonson. 

4. Ejivy^s reach ^= reach of hatred or malice. Envy frequently had this 
meaning in Shakespeare's time. In Mark xv. 10 we read: "For he knew 
that the chief priests had delivered him for envy.'''' 

5. Remorse^ pity, relenting — a common meaning in the age of Eliza- 
beth. 

6. JVhere = whereas. 

7. Loose = release, give up. 

8. Moiety = portion, share, as often m Shakespeare. According to its 
etym.ology, it strictly means a half. From Fr. vioitie^ half. 

9. Charter. — Shakespeare seems to have supposed that Venice held a 
charter from the German Emperor, which might be revoked for any flagrant 
act of injustice. 

10. ■ A gaping pig= a pig's head as roasted for the table. 

11. Passio7i ^ ieeWng. 

12. Lodg\l=^ fixed, abiding. 

13. Cnrrent =^ course. 

14. Think you question = consider that you are arguing. 

15. Main flood ^ ocean tide. 

16. Fretten = fretted. 

17. JVith all brief and plain cojiveniency = '■' w'wh. such brevity and 
directness as befits the administration of justice." — Wright. 

18. Have judgment =^ receive sentence. 

19. P^^r/x = offices, employments. 

20. Upon ??iy poii'er =^ hy y'xxXnQ of my prerogative. We still say, "on 
my authority." 

21. Deter»nne^= ditc\<^e. 

22. Hangman = executioner. 



NOTES TO THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 26/ 

23. Envy = malice. See note 4. 

24. in^=^ sense. 

25. Jncxecrahle — that cannot be execrated enough. Another reading is 
*' inexorable." 

26. And for thy life, etc. = let justice be impeached for allowing thee to 
live. 

27. Pythagoras. — A philosopher of the sixth century B.C., who taught the 
transmigration of souls. 

28. IVho, hang\i, etc. Another instance of the suspended nominative. 

29. Fc'll=^ fierce, cruel. A. S. fel, cruel. 

30. /7dr/ = flit, take flight. 

31. (9^t';/^/'5/' = hurtest, annoyest. 

32. 7'ofll up = to fulfil. 

33. A'o iinpedi)/ient to let him lack^= no hindrance to his receiving. 

34. Take your place, probably beside the duke. 

35. Questioji = trial. 

36. Such ride = such regular form. 

37. Impugn = oppose, controvert. 

38. Within his danger = within his power. 

39. Strain' d^ constrained, forced. 

40. Truth = honesty. 

41. A Daniel. — See the " History of Susanna " in the Apocrypha, where 
" the Lord raised up the holy spirit of a young youth, whose name was 
Daniel," to confound the two wicked judges. 

42. Hath full relation = is fully applicable. 

43. More elder. — Double comparatives were frequently used by the 
Elizabethan writers. 

44. Balance. — Though singular in form, it is used as a plural, as having 
two scales. 

45. Owjci/jr <r//«r^^ = at your expense. 

46. Still her use = constantly her custom. 

47. Speak me fair in death = speak well of me when I am dead. 

48. With all my heart. — There is pathos in this jest. 

49. y4y«j//6>?/«^= an exact pound. 

50. In the substance = in amount, in the gross weight. 

5 1 . Contrive = plot . 

52. Formerly = as aforesaid. 

53. Which humbleness, etc. = which humble supplication on your part 
may induce me to commute into a fine. 

54. hi use = in trust. 

55. 7>« more, that is, to make up twelve jurymen, who were jestingly 
called " godfathers-in-law," 



268 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

56. Serves you not = is not at your disposal. 

57. G";-^///)' = recompense. 

58. (rr7/t'= requite, repa)'. 

59. 'Withal = with; here used as a preposition governing ducats. 

60. More mercenary = desirous for more pay than the satisfaction of 
doing good. 

61. Offeree = of necessity. 

62. Atte7)ipt = tempt. 

63. ' ^rzcjr^' = excuse. This shortened form occurs in only one other pas- 
sage in Shakespeare. 

64. An if^ if; a pleonasm. 



Scene II. 

1. Upon more advice = upon further consideration. 

2. Old swearing. — " Old " was an intensive epithet in common use. 



ACT V. — Scene I. 

1. Ti'oilus was a son of Priam, king of Troy. He loved Cressida, 
daughter of the Grecian soothsayer, Calchas. 

2. Thisbe was a beautiful Babylonian lady, with whom Pyramus was in 
love. They agreed to meet at the tomb of Ninus; but, on arriving there, 
Thisbe was frightened at the sight of a lioness that had just Idlled an ox. 
She fled, leaving her cloak behind. Pyramus, finding the cloak stained wdth 
blood, believed that a wild beast had killed her, and took his own life — an 
example which was followed by Thisbe. 

3. Dido was Queen of Carthage. She loved ^^neas, by whom she was 
deserted. The " willow in her hand " was the symbol of unhappy love. 

4. Medea was the daughter of yEetes, king of Colchis. She assisted 
Jason in obtaining the Golden Fleece, and afterw^ards became his wife. She 
possessed magical powers, and in order to renew the youth of Aeson, the 
father of Jason, she boiled him in a caldron, into which she had cast "en- 
chanted herbs." 

5. Out-night you =beat you in this game of " In such a night." 

6. Holy crosses. — These were numerous in Italy, being found not only 
in churches, but along the roads. 

7. Exfect^= await. 

8. Patines = the plate used for the sacramental bread. It was some- 
times made of gold. 



NOTES TO THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 269 

9. Like an a?igel sings. — A reference to " the music of the spheres.'' 

10. ^«zrf«^= singing in concert. 

11. Diana = the goddess of the moon. 

12. Mutual =^ common, 

13. Orpheus = 3. Thracian poet who accompanied the Argonauts, and 
had the power of moving inanimate objects by the music of his lyre. 

14. Stock ish = stupid, insensible. 

15. Spoils = robbery, acts of pkindering. 

16. Erebus =: the underworld, or region of the dead. 

17. Without respect =^ absolutely, independent of circumstances. 

18. Attended ^ attended to, heard attentively. 

19. Season' d are = are made fit. 

20. Endymion. — In Greek mythology Silene, or the moon, is represented 
as charmed with the beauty of Endymion, whom she put to sleep on Mount 
Latmos, that she might nightly kiss him unobserved. 

21. Tucket = a flourish on a trumpet to announce an arrival. 

22. l^re should hold day, etc. = we should have day at the same time 
with the Antipodes, if you, Portia, would walk abroad at night in the absence 
of the sun. 

23. God sort all ^ God dispose or arrange all things. 

24. I/t all sense = in all reason. 

25. Breathing courtesy = courtesy consisting of mere breath or talk. 

26. Gratiano and Nerissa have been talking apart in dumb show. 

27. Posy = sentiment or motto inscribed on rings. A contraction of 
poesy. It was the custom to inscribe sentiments, usually in distichs, upon 
knives by means of aqua fortis. 

28. Respective =^ mindful or regardful of your oath. 

29. The virtue of the ring=ihe power of the ring. It gave its posses- 
sor a right to Portia and all she had. 

30. Contain = retain. 

31. J Van ted == as to have wanted; dependent on "so much un- 
reasonable." 

32. Ceremo/iy = a sacred thing. 

33. Civil doctor = doctor of civil law. 

34. Shame and courtesy = shame at being thought ungrateful, and a 
sense of what courtesy required. 

35. fF^'rt'//// = weal, prosperity. 

36. Advisedly = deliberately. 

37. Richly == richly laden. 

38. Suddenly = unexpectedly. 

39. Living =^ means of living, livelihood. 



270 EXGLISH LITERATURE. 

40. Satisfied of these events at full = fully satisfied concerning these 
events. 

41. Charge 21s upon inter^gatories, etc. "In the Court of Queen's 
Bench, when a complaint is made against a person for a 'contempt,' the 
practice is that before sentence is finally pronounced he is sent into the 
Crown Office, and being there 'charged upon interrogatories,' he is made to 
swear that he will 'answer all things faithfully.' " 



CIVIL WAR PERIOD. 



REPRESENTATIVE WRITER. 

JOHN MILTON. 

OTHER PROINIINENT WRITERS. 

Poets. — Waller, Cowley, Ouarles, Herrick, Suckling, 

Carew. 

Historian. — Lord Clarendon. 

Religions Writers. — Taylor, Baxter, Bunyan. 



III. 

CIVIL WAR PERIOD, 

1625-1660. 

General Survey, — Though short, this period is 
worthy of careful study. It is characterized by a great 
conflict that absorbed every other important interest. 
The antagonistic elements in England were at last brought 
into an armed contest for supremacy. Charles I. as- 
cended the throne in 1625, and moulded his policy accord- 
ing to high notions of the divine right of kings. He 
sought to establish an absolute monarchy. He assumed 
a haughty tone in addressing the Commons, telling them 
to " remember that parliaments were altogether in his 
power for their calling, sitting, or dissolution, and that, 
therefore, as he should find the fruits of them good or 
evil, they were to be, or not to be." 

Two Parliaments were convened in rapid succession, 
but showed themselves unyielding to the royal will. 
When the king demanded supplies, the Commons clam- 
ored for redress of grievances. In each case the king 
dissolved Parliament, and proceeded to levy taxes in 
defiance of law. Resistance to the royal demands led to 
immediate imprisonment ; and in order to exercise his 
tyranny the better, he billeted soldiers among the people, 
and in some places established martial law. 

A third Parliament was called in 1629. Finding it still 

273 



274 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

more determined in resisting his arbitrary and tyrannical 
rule, the king resolved upon a change of tactics. After 
many attempted evasions, he was at last brought to ratify 
the Petition of Right, the second great charter of English 
liberty, which bound him not to levy taxes without the 
consent of Parliament, not to imprison any person except 
by due course of law, and not to govern by martial law. 

The rejoicing of the Commons over this victory was 
of short duration. The king was by nature insincere and 
false, and, on principle, did not feel himself bound to keep 
faith with the people. After collecting the supplies that 
had been granted him, he violated the solemn pledge of 
the Petition of Right, and dissolved Parliament with every 
mark of royal displeasure. For the following eleven years 
no Parliament was called together, and the king ruled as a 
despot. 

Throughout the whole course of his usurpation, the 
king was surrounded by bad advisers. Among them 
was the Duke of- Buckingham, whom the Commons con- 
sidered "the grievance of grievances;" Laud, Archbishop 
of Canterbur}^ who hated the Puritans more than he hated 
the Catholics ; and Thomas Wentworth, Earl Strafford, 
who had been won from the side of Parliament by bribes 
and honors, and to whom Mr. Pym suggestively remarked, 
"■ You have left us, but we will never leave you while 
your head i's upon your shoulders." In natural sympathy 
with the king were the nobility of the realm and the prel- 
ates of the Established Church. With the supremacy of 
the crown, the position of the nobility would be guaranteed 
against republican tendencies. Since Charles I. was a zeal- 
ous Episcopalian, the bishops had every thing to gain from 
his absolutism. They warmly defended the divine right 



CIVIL WAR PERIOD. 2/5 

of kings. Here, then, we find two influential classes 
which were bound to the king by common sympathies and 
common interests. They were called Royalists. 

The opposition, as we have seen, centred in the House 
of Commons, who represented the great middle class of 
England. They stood for constitutional government. 
For the most part they were Independents in religion, and 
looked upon the usages and episcopal organization of the 
Anglican Church as savoring of Romanism. They made 
the individual congregation the source of authority, and, 
rejecting all human traditions, appealed to the Scriptures 
alone as the standard of faith and practice. Their form of 
worship was simple. 

In emancipating men from the arbitrary rule of an 
external authority in religion, their principles were favor- 
able to human dignity and freedom. Though persecuted 
to a greater or less degree during the reigns of Elizabeth 
and James I., the Independents had increased. Their 
trials had made them an earnest and determined body. 
In contrast with what they regarded the formalism and 
worldliness of the Established Church, many of them 
had gone to the opposite extreme of ascetic rigor. They 
denounced every kind of amusement, excluded music 
and art from the churches, acquired a stern solemnity 
of countenance, and affected a Scriptural style of speech. 

To escape the annoyances and persecutions to which 
they were exposed in England, thousands had volun- 
tarily exiled themselves in Holland, or braved the trials 
and dangers of the New World. It will be readily under- 
stood that men of this character — men of deep conviction, 
of high conceptions of individual liberty, and of fearless 
courage — could not be friendly to royal despotism. 



276 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

When placed in power in the House of Commons, they 
were stubborn and unyielding in their defence of constitu- 
tional liberty. They could not be deceived by promises 
nor terrified by threats. Thus constitutional government 
in the Commons was arrayed against despotism in the 
king. 

At last the resources of peace were exhausted, and in 
1642 an appeal was made to arms. It is not necessary to 
follow the course of the Civil War. The gay Cavaliers 
about the king were no match for the serious Puritans. 
*' I raised such men as had the fear of God before them," 
said Cromwell, "and made some conscience of what they 
did, and from that day forward, I must say to you, they 
were never beaten, and wherever they engaged against the 
enemy they beat continually." 

In 1649 Charles I. was brought to the block. Eng- 
land became a commonwealth, and with Cromwell as 
Lord Protector occupied a commanding position among 
European nations. The Protector was everywhere feared. 
He subjugated Ireland ; from Spain he demanded the 
right of free trade with the West Indies ; he suppressed 
the Barbary pirates of the Mediterranean ; he forced 
the Pope and Catholic rulers to cease their persecutions 
of Protestants. In treating with foreign sovereigns, he 
insisted on receiving the formal honors paid to the 
proudest monarchs of Europe. He returned two letters 
to Louis XIV. of France because they were not, as he 
thought, properly addressed. " What," exclaimed the 
French king to Cardinal Mazarin, *' must I call this base 
fellow * Our dear Brother Oliver.'*'" "Aye," replied the 
crafty minister, " or your father, if it will gain your ends ; 
or you will have him at the gates of Paris ! " 



CIVIL WAR PERIOD. 2// 

This was not a period favorable to literature. The 
genius of the nation was occupied with practical questions 
of the highest importance. The people were divided in 
sympathy between the king and Parliament. Much 
ability was absorbed in controversial writings of only 
temporary value. Anglicans, Catholics, Presbyterians, 
Independents, and Puritans were constantly in conflict. 
The Royalist poets, writing in the atmosphere of the 
court, could not easily be more than graceful versifiers. 
There was no leisure nor inspiration for great works. 

On the other hand, Puritan poets were not more favor- 
ably situated. In the austere atmosphere of Puritanic 
piety, there is little encouragement for the grace and deli- 
cacy of poetry. The aesthetic sentiment is suppressed by 
ascetic views of life. The literary impulse finds expres- 
sion only in devotional manuals, unadorned history, or 
severely logical theology. '' The idea of the beautiful is 
wanting," says Taine, *' and what is literature without it .-^ 
The natural expression of the heart's emotions is pro- 
scribed, and what is a literature without it } They abol- 
ished as impious the free stage and the rich poesy which 
the Renaissance had brought them. They rejected as 
profane the ornate style and the ample eloquence which 
had been established around them by the imitation of an- 
tiquity and of Italy." 

We find, however, one great exception. It is John 
Milton. Though a Puritan at heart, and a participator 
in the religious controversies and political movements of 
the period, he was able to rise above the narrowness of 
party spirit, and stands out as the one great literary figure 
of his age. 

With the exception of Milton the poetic writers of this 



2/8 ENGLISH LITERATURE, 

period show a literary decadence. The large, creative 
spirit of the preceding era, Avhich reflected the grandeur 
and power of the English people, was succeeded by a 
narrov/, artificial spirit, which devote :1 its energies to the 
turning of small compliments and the tracing of remote 
resemblances. Since the time of Dr. Johnson, it has been 
customary to designate these writers, among whom we 
may mention Waller, Cowley, Quarles, Herrick, Suckling, 
and Carew, as metaphysical poets. 

The term artificial or fantastic would perhaps be more 
accurately descriptive of their character. They were men 
of learning, but took too much pains to show it. They 
wrote not from the emotions of the heart, but from the 
deliberate choice of the will ; and hence they succeeded 
not in giving voice to nature, but only in pleasing a false 
and artificial taste. They abound in far-fetched and vio- 
lent figures ; and though we may be surprised at their 
ingenuity in discovering remote resemblances, we smile at 
the incongruous fesult. Thus Carew sings :^ 

"Ask me no more, whither do stray 
The golden atoms of the day; 
For in pure love, heaven did prepare 
Those powders- to enrich your hair. 

Ask me no more, whither doth haste 
The nightingale, when ISlay is past; 
For in your sweet dividing throat 
She winters, and keeps warm her note. 

Ask me no more, where those stars light, 
That downwards fall in dead of night; 
For in your eyes they sit, and there 
Fixed become, as in their sphere." 

It is not in such laborious conceits that n.ature finds a 
voice. Speaking of these poets. Dr. Johnson says : "Their 



CIVIL WAR PERIOD. 279 

attempts were always analytic ; they broke every image 
into fragments ; and could no more represent, by their 
slender conceits and labored particularities, the prospects 
of nature, or the scenes of life, than he who dissects the 
sunbeam with a prism can exhibit the wide effulgence of 
a summer noon. What they wanted, however, of the 
sublime, they endeavored to supply by hyperbole ; their 
amplification had no limits ; they left not only reason but 
fancy behind them ; and produced combinations of con- 
fused magnificence that not only could not be credited, 
but could not be imagined." 

Yet a happy trifle was now and then hit upon. At 
rare intervals nature seems to have broken through the 
casing of artificiality. Francis Ouarles gives forcible 
poetic expansion to Job's prayer, " Oh that thou wouldest 
hide me in the grave, that thou wouldest keep me secret, 
until thy wrath be past." 

"Ah, whither shall I fly? What path untrod 
Shall I seek out to escape the flaming rod 
Of my offended, of my angry God? " 

There is a light, careless spontaneity about the little 
song of Herrick's beginning, — 

" Gather the rose-buds while ye may, 
Old Time is still a flying; 
And this same flower that smiles to-day 
To-morrow will be dying." 



280 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



JOHN MILTON. 

In the period under consideration, Milton stands out in 
solitary grandeur. Intimately associated with the political 
and religious movements of his time, and identified in prin- 
ciple and in life with the Puritan party, he still rises grandly 
above the narrowness of his age. In one work at least he 
rivals the great achievements of the age of Elizabeth. He de- 
serves to be recognized as the sublimest poet of all times. 
The far-fetched conceit of Dryden, whose genuine apprecia- 
tion of Milton at a time when the Puritan poet was not in 
fashion is much to his credit, hardly surpasses the truth : — 

" Three poets, in three distant ages born, 
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. 
The first in loftiness of thought surpassed ; 
The next in majesty; in both the last. 
The force of nature could no further go : 
To make a third, she joined the other two." 

John Milton was born in London, Dec. 9, 1608. His father, 
a man of the highest integrity, had been disinherited for es- 
pousing the Protestant cause; but, taking up the profession of 
a scrivener, he acquired the means of giving his son a liberal 
education. His mother, a woman of most virtuous character, 
w^as especially distinguished for her neighborhood charities. 
The private tutor of Milton was Thomas Young, a Puritan 
minister, who was afterwards forced to leave the kingdom on 
account of his religious opinions. Milton showed extraordi- 
nary aptness in learning; and when in 1624 he was sent to 
Cambridge, he was master of several languages, and had read 



JOHN MILTON. 28 I 

extensively in philosophy and literature. He remained at the 
university seven years, and took the usual degrees. 

The education of his time did not, however, meet with his 
approval, and in several of his works he has criticised the sub- 
jects and methods of study with astonishing independence and 
wisdom. His educational writings deservedly rank him as one 
of the notable educational reformers of modern times. *' And 
for the usual method of teaching arts," he says, "• I deem it to 
be an old error of universities, not yet well recovered from the 
scholastic grossness of barbarous ages, that, instead of begin- 
ning with arts most easy (and those be such as are most obvi- 
ous to the senses), they present their young, unmatriculated 
novices at first coming with the most intellective abstractions 
of logic and metaphysics ; so that they, having but newly left 
those grammatic flats and shallows, where they stuck unreason- 
ably long to learn a few words with lamentable construction, 
and now on the sudden transported under another climate, to 
be tossed and turmoiled with their unballasted wits in fathom- 
less and unquiet depths of controversy, do for the most part 
grow into hatred and contempt of learning, mocked and de- 
luded all this while with ragged notions and babblements, while 
they expected delightful and worthy knowledge." 

Milton was designed by his parents for the church. But as 
he approached maturity, he perceived that his religious convic- 
tions and ecclesiastical independence would not allow him to 
enter the Established Church. We here see, perhaps, the 
effects of his Puritan training. Speaking of this matter he 
says : " Coming to some maturity of years, and perceiving 
what tyranny had invaded the church, that he who would take 
orders must subscribe slave, and take an oath withal, which 
unless he took with a conscience that he would relish, he must 
either perjure or split his faith, I thought better to prefer a 
blameless silence before the sacred office of speaking, bought 
and begun with servitude and forswearing." 

In 1632 he left the university amidst the regrets of the fel- 
lows of his college, and retired to his father's house at Horton 



282 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

in Buckinghamshire. Here he spent five years in laborious 
study, in the course of which he perused all the Greek and 
Latin writers of the classic period. He also studied Italian, 
and was accustomed, as he tells us, "to feast with avidity and 
delight on Dante and Petrarch." To use his own expression, 
he was letting his wings grow. In a letter to a friend, he gives 
us some interesting particulars in regard to his studies and 
habits of life. "You well know," he says, "that I am natu- 
rally slow in writing, and averse to write. It is also in my 
favor that your method of study is such as to admit of frequent 
interruptions, in which you visit your friends, write letters, or 
go abroad ; but it is my way to suffer no impediment, no love 
of ease, no avocation whatever, to chill the ardor, to break the 
continuity, or divert the completion of my literary pursuits." 

It was during this period of studious retirement that he 
produced several of his choicest poems, among which are 
"Comus," "L' Allegro," and "II Penseroso." " Comus" is the 
most perfect mask in any language. But " in none of the 
works of Milton," says Macaulay, "is his peculiar manner more 
happily displayed than in 'Allegro' and the 'Penseroso.' It 
is impossible to conceive that the mechanism of language can 
be brought to a more exquisite degree of perfection. These 
poems differ from others, as attar of roses differs from ordi- 
nary rose water, the close-packed essence from the thin diluted 
mixture. They are indeed not so much poems as collections 
of hints, from each of which the reader is to make a poem 
for himself. Every epithet is a text for a stanza." 

At the time these two poems were written, they stood as the 
highwater mark of English poetry. In their sphere they have 
never been excelled. In spite of little inaccuracies of descrip- 
tion (for Milton was too much in love with books to be a close 
observer of nature), we find nowhere else such an exquisite 
delineation of country life and country scenes. These idylls 
are the more remarkable, because their light, joyous spirit 
stands in strong contrast with the elevation, dignity, and aus- 
terity of his other poems. 



JOHN MILTON. 283 

At length Milton began to tire of his country life, and to 
long for the pleasures and benefits of travel. In 1638 he left 
England for a tour on the Continent. At Paris he met Grotius, 
one of the most learned men of his age, who resided at the 
French capital as ambassador from the Queen of Sweden. 
After a few days he went to Italy, and visited all the principal 
cities. He was everywhere cordially received by men of learn- 
ing, who were not slow to recognize his genius. In his travels 
he preserved an admirable and courageous independence. 
Even under the shadow of St. Peter's he made no effort to 
conceal his religious opinions. " It was a rule," he says, 
" which I laid down to myself in those places, never to be the 
first to begin any conversation on religion ; but if any question 
were put to me concerning my faith, to declare it without any 
reserve or fear. . . . For about the space of two months, I 
again openly defended, as I had done before, the reformed re- 
ligion in the very metropolis of Popery." 

The Italians, who were frugal in their praise of men from 
beyond the Alps, received some of Milton's productions with 
marks of high appreciation. This had the effect to confirm his 
opinion of his own power, and to stimulate his hope of achiev- 
ing something worthy of remembrance. " I began thus to 
assent both to them, and divers of my friends at home," he 
tells us in an interesting passage, " and not less to an inward 
prompting, which now grew daily upon me, that, by labor and 
intense study (which I take to be my portion in this life), I 
might perhaps leave something so written to after-times as they 
should not willingly let die." He was about to extend his 
travels into Sicily and Greece when the news of the civil com- 
motions in England caused him to change his purpose ; " for 
I thought it base," he says, "to be travelling for amusement 
abroad, while my fellow-citizens were fighting for liberty at 
home." 

Not being called to serve the state in any official capacity 
on his arrival in London, he rented a spacious house in which 
he conducted a private school. He souglit to exemplify, in 



284 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

some measure at least, his educational theories. He held that 
languages should be studied for the sake of the literary treas- 
ures they contain. He accordingly laid but little stress on 
minute verbal drill, and sought to acquaint his pupils with what 
was best in classic literature. A long list of Latin and Greek 
authors was read. Besides, he attached much importance to 
religious instruction ; and on Sunday he dictated to his pupils 
an outline of Protestant theology. 

But this school has called forth some unfavorable criticism 
upon its founder. Dr. Johnson, who delights in severe reflec- 
tions, calls attention to the contrast between the lofty sentiment 
and small performance of the poet, who, " when he reaches the 
scene of action, vapors away his patriotism in a private board- 
ing-school." The animadversion is unjust. Though modestly 
laboring as a teacher, Milton's talents and learning were sin- 
cerely devoted to the service of his country. He has himself 
given us what ought to be a satisfactory explanation. " Avoid- 
ing the labors of the camp," he says, " in which any robust 
soldier would have surpassed me, T betook myself to those 
weapons which I could wield with most effect ; and I conceived 
that I was acting wisely when I thus brought my better and 
more valuable faculties, those which constituted my principal 
strength and consequence, to the assistance of my country .and 
her honorable cause." 

In 1 641 he published his first work in prose, " Of Reforma- 
tion i 1 England, and the Causes that hitherto have Hindered 
It." It is an attack upon the bishops and the Established 
Church. The same year appeared two other controversial 
works, " Of Prelatical Episcopacy," which he maintains is 
without warrant from apostolic times, and "The Reason of 
Church Government," which is an argument against prelacy. 
With these works Milton threw himself into the bitter contro- 
versies of the age. It was a matter, not of choice, but of 
duty. He felt called to add the weight of his learning and 
eloquence to the side of the Puritans, who were perhaps infe- 
rior to their prelatical opponents in scholarship. He tells us 



JOHN MILTON. 285 

himself that he " was not disposed to this manner of writing, 
wherein knowing myself inferior to myself, led by the genial 
power of nature to another task, I have the use, as I may 
account it, but of my left hand." 

In 1643, i^"^ his thirty-fifth year, Milton married Mary 
Powell, daughter of a justice of the peace in Oxfordshire. 
She was of Royalist family, and had been brought up in the 
leisure and gayety of affluence. It is not strange, therefore, 
that she found the meagre fare and studious habits of her hus- 
band's house distasteful. After a month in this scholastic 
abode, she made a visit to her father's home, from which she 
refused to return. Her husband's letters were left unanswered, 
and his messenger was dismissed with contempt. Milton felt 
this breach of duty on her part very keenly, and resolved at 
once to repudiate his wife on the ground of disobedience and 
desertion. 

' In support of his course, he published in 1644 a treatise 
entitled, " The Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce," and the 
year following his " Tetrachordon," or expositions on the four 
chief places of Scripture which treat of marriage.' He main- 
tains " that indisposition, unfitness, or contrariety of mind, 
arising from a cause in nature unchangeable, hindering, and 
likely to hinder, the main benefits of conjugal society, which 
are solace and peace," is a justifiable ground of divorce. As 
might be expected, he argued with great skill ; but he was 
smarting at the time under a sense of personal humiliation and 
wrong, and it may be doubted whether he himself afterwards 
approved of his extreme position. His views were bitterly as- 
sailed. 

At last a reconciliation between him and his wife was 
effected. When one day she suddenly appeared before him, 
and on her knees begged his forgiveness, his generous im- 
pulses were deeply moved. He received her into his home 
again, and ever afterwards treated her with affection ; and 
when her family, because of their Royalist sympathies fell into 
distress, he generously extended his protection to her father 



286 EXGLISH LITERATURE. 

and brothers. The incidents of this reconciUation are sup- 
posed to have given rise to a beautiful passage in " Paradise 

Lost."" where Eve is described as humbly falling in tears and 
disordered tresses at the feet of Adam, and suing for pardon 
and peace. And then — 

"She ended, weeping; and her lowly plight, 
Immovable till peace obtained from fault 
Acknowledged and deplored, in Adam wrought 
Commiseration; soon his heart relented 
Towards her, his life so late, and sole delight, 
Now at his feet submissive in distress; 
Creature so fair his reconcilement seeking. 
His counsel, whom she had displeased, his aid." 

This same year. 1644. saw the publication of two other trea- 
tises that will long survive. The one is the "'Areopagitica. or 
Speech for the Liberty of Unlicensed Printing."" the other is 
his '"Tractate on Education."" In the latter he has set forth' 
in brief compass his educational views, and made many sugges- 
tions for the improvement of the current system. It has been 
pronounced 'Utopian in character: but it is to be noted that 
many educational reforms of recent years have been in the line 
indicated by Milton, 

His dehnition of education, which has been often quoted, 
presents a beautiful ideal. " I call a complete and generous 
education."" he says, "that which tits a man to perform justly, 
skilfully, and magnanimously all the offices, both private and 
public, of peace and war."" But he does not contemplate 
practical efficiency in the secular duties of life as the sole end 
of education. Its highest aim is character. "• The end of learn- 
ing is," he says, "to repair the ruins of our lirst parents by 
resainins: to know God ari2:ht. and out of that knowledo'e to 
love him. to imitate him. to be like him. as we may the nearest 
by possessing our souls of true virtue, which being united to 
the heavenly grace of faith, makes up the highest perfection."" 

Languages are to be studied in order to learn the useful 
things embodied in the literatiu-es of those peoples that have 



JOHN MILTON. 28/ 

made the highest attainments in wisdom. " And though a 
Hnguist should pride himself to have all the tongues that 
Babel cleft the world into, yet if he have not studied the solid 
things in them, as well as the words and lexicons, he were noth- 
ing so much to be esteemed a learned man as any yeoman or 
tradesman competently wise in his mother dialect only." 

He held that the subjects studied and the tasks imposed 
should be wisely adapted to the learner's age and progress; 
and he strongly denounces the "preposterous exaction " which 
forces '' the empty wits of children to compose themes, verses, 
and orations, which are the acts of ripest judgment and the 
final work of a head filled by long reading and observing 
with elegant maxims and copious invention." The outline 
of studies he proposes includes nearly the whole circuit of 
learning — a curriculum of heroic mould. Milton himself 
seems to have been conscious of the vastness of his plan ; 
and he concludes the "Tractate" with the remark, "that this 
is not a bow for every man to shoot in that counts himself a 
teacher, but will require sinews almost equal to those which 
Homer gave Ulysses." 

Milton continued to live in private, giving his life to instruct- 
ing his pupils, and to discussing questions relating to the pub- 
lic weal. In 1649, two weeks after the execution of Charles I., 
he published his "Tenure of Kings and Magistrates," in which 
he undertook to prove that it is lawful, and has been held so in 
all ages, for any who have the power, to call to account a 
tyrant or wicked king, and, after due conviction, to depose and 
put him to death. This treatise marked a turning-point in his 
career. The Council of State of the new Commonwealth, 
pleased with his courage and republicanism, called him to the 
secretaryship for foreign tongues. It became his duty to pre- 
pare the Latin letters which were addressed by the Council to 
foreign princes. Later he ser\ ed as Cromwell's Latin Secre- 
tary — an office he held throughout the Protectorate. 

His literary and controversial activity, however, did not 
cease in his official life. His " Eikonoklastes," or Image- 



288 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

breaker, was written in 1649 to counteract the influence of the 
'' Eikon Basihke,'' or Royal Image, a book that had an immense 
circulation, and tended to create a reaction in public sentiment 
in favor of the monarch)^ A still more important work was his 
Latin "Pro Populo Anglicano Defensio,"' which was written in 
reply to a treatise by Salmasius, a scholar of Leyden, in which 
an effort was made to vindicate the memory of Charles I., and 
to bring reproach upon the Commonwealth. In spite of fail- 
ing vision and the warning of his physicians, Milton threw him- 
self with great ardor into his task, and in 1651 published his 
^' Defensio," one of the most masterty controversial works ever 
written. He practically annihilated his opponent. The Com- 
monwealth, it was said, owed its standing in Europe to Crom- 
well's battles and Milton's books. 

During the Protectorate, Milton's life was uneventful. He 
bore his blindness, which had now become total, witli heroic 
fortitude, upheld by the faith that — 

" They also serve who only stand and wait." 

At the Restoration, though specially named for punishment. 
he somehow escaped the scaffold. His life, however, was for 
some years one of solitude and dejection. His own feelings 

are put into the mouth of his Samson : — 

"Now^ blind, disheartened, shamed, dishonored, quelled, 
To what can I be useful? wherein serve 
My nation, and the work from heaven imposed? 
But to sit idle on the household hearth, 
A burdensome drone, to visitants a gaze. 
Or pitied object." 

To add to his distress, his three daughters, whose rearing 
had been somewhat neglected, failed to prove a comfort to 
their father in his sore afflictions. They treated him with dis- 
respect, sold his books by stealth, and rebelled against the 
drudgery of reading to him. Under these circumstances, it is 
hardly to be wondered at that he allowed himself to be per- 



JOHN MILTON. 289 

suaded into contracting a third marriage — a union that greatly 
added to the comfort and happiness of his last years. 

But in all this period of trial, Milton had the solace of a 
noble task. He was slowly elaborating his " Paradise Lost," 
in which he realized the dream of his youth. Its main theme 
is indicated in the opening lines : — 

"Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit 
Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste 
Brought death into the world, and all our woe, 
With loss of Eden, till one greater Man 
Restore us, and regain the blissful seat. 
Sing, heavenly Muse, that on the secret top 
Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire 
That shepherd, who first taught the chosen seed, 
In the beginning, how the heavens and earth 
Rose out of chaos." 

But the poem must be read before its grandeur can be 
appreciated. It is one of the world's great epics ; and in 
majesty of plan and sublimity of treatment, it surpasses them 
all. The Eternal Spirit, which he invokes, seems to have 
touched his lips with hallowed fire. The splendors of heaven, 
the horrors of hell, and the beauties of Paradise are depicted 
with matchless power. The beings of the unseen world, 
angels and demons, exercise before us their mighty agency ; 
and in the council chambers of heaven we hear the words of 
the Almighty, The poem comprehends the universe, sets forth 
the truth of divine government, and exhibits life in its eternal 
significance — a poem that rises above the petty incidents of 
earth with monumental splendor. It met with appreciation 
from the start. With a clear recognition of its worth, Dryden 
said, " This man cuts us all out, and the ancients too." Milton's 
modest house became a pilgrim's shrine, and men from every 
rank, not only from his native land, but also from abroad, 
came to pay him homage. 

Milton's literary activity continued to the last, and enriched 
our literature with two other noble productions, " Paradise Re- 



290 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

gained," and " Samson Agonistes.'" The former may be re- 
garded as a sequel to " Paradise Lost ; "' the latter is the most 
powerful drama in our language after the Greek model. The 
poet, unconsciously perhaps, identified himself with his Sam- 
son, and gave utterance to the profoundest emotions which had 
been awakened by the mighty conflicts and sorrows of his own 
life. 

He died Nov. 8, 1674. He was a man of heroic mould. 
In his solitary grandeur only one man of his age deserves to 
be placed beside him — the great Protector, Oliver Cromwell. 
His greatness was austere. In his life he had no intimate and 
tender companionships ; and now our feeling toward him is ad- 
miration rather than love. His character w^as without blemish, 
his aspirations pure and lofty, his courage undaunted, his intel- 
lectual vigor and power almost without parallel. But he was 
conscious of his greatness, and, finding ample resources within 
himself, he did not seek human sympath}-. \"\'ordsworth has 
spoken truly, — 

"Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart." 

Like his own •" Paradise Lost," he appears, with his Titanic 
proportions and independent loneliness, as the most impressive 
figure in English literature. 



L' ALLEGRO. 29I 



L'ALLEGRO. 

Hence, loathed Melancholy, 

Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born, 

In Stygian cave forlorn, 

'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy ! 
Find out some uncouth cell, 

Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings, 

And the night-raven sings : 
There, under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks, 
As ragged as thy locks. 

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. 10 

But come, thou goddess fair and free. 
In Heaven yclep'd Euphrosyne, 
And by men, heart-easing Mirth ; 
Whom lovely Venus, at a birth. 
With two sister Graces more. 
To ivy-crown6d Bacchus bore : 
Or whether, as some sager sing, 
The frolick wind, that breathes the spring. 
Zephyr, with Aurora pla\ing. 

As he met her once a-Maying ; -20 

There on beds of violets blue, 
And fresh-blown roses wash'd in dew, 
Fiird her with thee a daughter fair. 
So buxom, blithe, and debonair. 

Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee 
Jest, and youthful jollity, 
Quips, and cranks, and wanton-wiles. 
Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles, 
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek. 

And love to live in dimple sleek ; 3° 

Sport that wrinkled Care derides. 
And Laughter holding both his sides. 
Come, and trip it, as you go. 
On the light fantastick toe ; 
And in thy right hand lead with thee 
The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty ; 



292 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

And, if I give thee honour due, 

Mirth, admit me of thy crew. 

To live with her, and live with thee, 

In unreprov^d pleasures free ; 4° 

To hear the lark begin his flight, 

And singing, startle the dull night, 

From his watch-tower in the skies, 

Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; 

Then to come, in spite of sorrow, 

And at my window bid good morrow, 

Through the sweet-briar, or the vine, 

Or the twisted eglantine : 

While the cock, with lively din. 

Scatters the rear of darkness thin ; 50 

And to the stack, or the barn-door. 

Stoutly struts his dames before : 

Oft listening how the hounds and horn 

Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn, 

From the side of some hoar hill. 

Through the high wood echoing shrill : 

Some time walking, not unseen, 

By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, 

Right against the eastern gate, 

Where the great sun begins his state 60 

Robed in flames, and amber light, 

The clouds in thousand liveries dight ; 

While the plowman, near at hand. 

Whistles o'er the furrow'd land. 

And the milkmaid singeth blithe. 

And the mower whets his sithe, 

And every shepherd -tells his tale 

Under the hawthorn in the dale. 

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures. 
Whilst the landskip round it measures ; 70 

Russet lawns, and fallows gray. 
Where the nibbling flocks do stray; 
Mountains, on whose barren breast 
The labVing clouds do often rest ; 
Meadows trim with daisies pide, 
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide : 



Z 'ALLEGRO. 293 



Towers and battlements it sees 

Bosom'd high in tufted trees, 

Where perhaps some beauty lies, 

The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes. 

Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes 

From betwixt two aged oaks. 

Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met, 

Are at their savoury dinner set 

Of herbs, and other country messes, 

Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses ; 

And then in haste her bower she leaves, 

With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ; 

Or, if the earlier season lead, 

To the tann'd haycock in the mead. 

Sometimes with secure delight 

The upland hamlets will invite. 

When the merry bells ring round, 

And the jocund rebecks sound 

To many a youth, and many a maid, 

Dancing in the chequer'd shade ; 

And young and old come forth to play 

On a sunshine holyday, 

Till the livelong daylight fail : 

Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, 

With stories told of many a feat, 

How faery Mab the junkets ate : 

She w^as pinch'd and pulFd, she sed ; 

And he, by friers lantern led, 

Tells how the drudging goblin swet, 

To earn his cream-bowl duly set. 

When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, 

His shadowy fiale hath thresh'd the corn, 

That ten day-labourers could not end : 

Then Hes him down the lubbar fiend. 

And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length. 

Basks at the fire his hairy strength ; 

And crop-full out of doors he flings. 

Ere the first cock his matin rings. 

Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, 

By whispering winds soon lull'd asleep. 



90 



294 - ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Tower'cl cities please us then, 

And the busy hum of men, 

Where throngs of knights and barons bold, 

In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold, i^o 

With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 

Rain influence, and judge the prize 

Of wit or arms, while both contend 

To win her grace, whom all commend. 

There let Hymen oft appear 

In saffron robe, with taper clear. 

And pomp, and feast, and revelry. 

With mask, and antique pageantry ; 

Such sights as youthful poets dream 

On summer eves by haunted stream, 13° 

Then to the well-trod stage anon, 

If Jonson's learned sock be on : 

Or sweetest Shakspeare, Fancy's child. 

Warble his native wood-notes wild. 

And ever, against eating cares, 
Lap me in soft Lydian airs. 
Married to immortal verse : 
Such as the meeting soul may pierce. 
In notes, Avith many a winding bout 

Of linked sweetness long drawn out, 140 

With wanton heed and giddy cunning; 
The melting voice through mazes running, 
Untwisting all the chains that tie 
The hidden soul of harmony ; 
That Orpheus^ self may heave his head 
From golden slumber on a bed 
Of heap'd Elysian flowers, and hear 
Such strains, as would have won the ear 
Of Pluto, to have quite set free 
His half-regained Eurydice. 150 

These delights if thou canst give, 
Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 



IL PENSEROSO. 295 



IL PENSEROSO. 

Hence, vain deluding Jons, 

The brood of Folly without father bred ! 

How little you bested, 
Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys ! 
Dwell in some idle brain, 

And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess, 

As thick and numberless 

As the gay motes that people the sun-beams ; 

Or likest hovering dreams. 
The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. 10 

But hail, thou goddess, sage and holy, 
Hail, divinest Melancholy! 
Whose saintly visage is too bright 
To hit the sense of human sight. 
And therefore to our weaker view 
O'erlaid with black, staid wisdom's hue ; 
Black, but such as in esteem 
Prince Memnon's sister might beseem. 
Or that starr"d Ethiop queen that strove 

To set her beauty's praise above 20 

The sea-nymphs\ and their powers offended : 
Yet thou art higher far descended : 
Thee bright-hair'd Vesta, long of yore, 
To solitary Saturn bore ; 
His daughter she ; in Saturn's reign 
Such mixture was not held a stain : 
Oft in glimmering bowers and glades 
He met her, and in secret shades 
Of woody Ida's inmost grove, 
Whilst yet there w^as no fear of Jove. 30 

Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure. 
Sober, stedfast, and demure, 
All in a robe of darkest grain, 
Flowing with majestick train. 
And sable stole of Cypress lawn, 
Over thy decent shoulders drawn. 



296 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Come, but keep thy wonted state, 

With even step, and musing gait ; 

And looks commercing with the skies. 

Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes : 40 

There, held in holy passion still, 

Forget thyself to marble, till 

With a sad leaden downward cast 

Thou fix them on the earth as fast : 

And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, 

Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, 

And hears the Muses in a ring 

Aye round about Jove's altar sing. 

And add to these retired Leisure, 

That in trim gardens takes his pleasure : 5° 

But first and chiefest with thee bring. 

Him that yon soars on golden wing 

Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne. 

The cherub Contemplation; 

And the mute Silence hist along, 

'Less Philomel will deign a song. 

In her sweetest, saddest plight. 

Smoothing the rugged brow of night, 

While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke, 

Gently o"er the accustom"d oak : 60 

Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly, 

Most musical, most melancholy ! 

Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods among, 

I woo, to hear thy even-song; 

And, missing thee, I walk unseen 

On the dry smooth-shaven green, 

To behold the wandering moon 

Riding near her highest noon. 

Like one that had been led astray 

Through the heaven's wide pathless way ; 70 

And oft, as if her head she bow'd. 

Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 

Oft, on a plat of rising ground, 

I hear the far-off curfeu sound, 

Over some wide-water'd shore, 

Swinofinof slow with sullen roar : 



IL PENSEROSO. 297 

Or, if the air will not permit. 

Some still removed place will fit, 

Where glowing embers through the room 

Teach light to counterfeit a gloom ; 80 

Far from all resort of mirth. 

Save the cricket on the hearth. 

Or the bellman's drowsy charm, 

To bless the doors from nightly harm. 

Or let my lamp at midnight hour, 

Be seen in some high lonely tower. 

Where I may oft outwatch the Bear, 

With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere 

The spirit of Plato, to unfold 

What worlds or what vast regions hold 9° 

The mortal mind, that hath forsook 

Her mansion in this fleshly nook : 

And of those demons that are found 

In fire, air, flood, or under ground. 

Whose power hath a true consent 

With planet, or with element. 

Sometimes let gorgeous Tragedy 

In sceptred pall come sweeping by. 

Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line. 

Or the tale of Troy divine ; 100 

Or what, though rare, of later age 

Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage. 

But, O sad Virgin, that thy power 
Might raise Musaeus from his bower! 
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 
Such notes, as, warbled to the string. 
Drew iron tears down Pluto''s cheek, 
And made Hell grant what love did seek ! 
Or call up him that left half-told 

The story of Cambuscan bold, no 

Of Camball and of Algarsife, 
And who had Canace to wife. 
That own'd the virtuous ring and glass ; 
And of the wondrous horse of brass. 
On which the Tartar king did ride : 
And if ausht else sreat bards beside 



ENGLISH LITER A TURE. 

In sage and solemn tunes have sung, 

Of turneys, and of trophies hung ; 

Of forests and enchantments drear, 

Where more is meant than meets the ear. 120 

Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career, 
Till civil-suited Morn appear, 
Not trick'd and frounced as she was wont 
With the Attic boy to hunt. 
But kercheft in a comely cloud, 
While rocking winds are piping loud, 
Or usher'd with a shower still. 
When the gust hath blown his fill. 
Ending on the rustling leaves, 

With minute drops from off the eaves. 13° 

And, when the sun begins to fling 
His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring 
To arched walks of twilight groves, 
And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves. 
Of pine, or monumental oak. 
Where the rude axe, with heaved stroke. 
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt, 
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt. 
There in close covert by some brook, 

Where no profaner eye may look, 14° 

Hide me from day's garish eye, 
WHiile the bee with honied thigh, 
That at her flowery work doth sing, 
And the waters murmuring, 
W^ith such consort as they keep, 
Entice the dewy-featherd sleep ; 
And let some strange mysterious Dream 
Wave at his wings in aery stream 
Of lively portraiture displayed, 

Softly on my eyelids laid : 150 

And, as I wake, sweet music breathe 
Above, about, or underneath, 
Sent by some Spirit to mortals good, 
Or the unseen Genius of the wood. 

But let my due feet never fail 
To walk the studious cloysters pale. 



IL PENSEROSO. 299 

And love the high-embow^d roof, 

With antick pillars massy proof, 

And storied windows richly dight. 

Casting a dim religious light : ^60 

There let the pealing organ blow, 

To the full-voiced quire below, 

In service high, and anthems clear. 

As may with sweetness, through mine ear. 

Dissolve me into ecstasies. 

And bring all heaven before mine eyes. 

And may at last my weary age 
Find out the peaceful hermitage, , 

The hairy gown and mossy cell, 

Where I may sit and rightly spell 170 

Of every star that heaven dotli shew, 
And every herb that sips the dew ; 
Till old experience do attain 
To something like prophetic strain. 

These pleasures. Melancholy, give, 
And I with thee will choose to live. 



300 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



NOTES TO MILTON. 
L'ALLEGRO. 

( The numbers refer to lines.) 

The title D Allegro is from the Italian, and signifies " the cheerful man." 

1. Melancholy = a gloomy state of mind. From Gr. melan, stem of 
melas, black, and choie, bile. Black bile was thought to cause a gloomy state 
of mind. 

2. Cerberus = the three-headed monster in the shape of a serpent-tailed 
dog, which, according to mythology, guarded the entrance to the infernal 
regions. The genealogy here given is Milton's own invention. 

3. Stygian = pertaining to the Styx, fabled by the ancients to be a river 
of hell, over which Charon rowed the souls of the dead; hence, hellish, in- 
fernal. — Forlorn = deserted; from A. S. /orloren. Cf. Ger. verloren, lost. 

5. Uncouth = hideous; from A. S. cutijian, to know, and the prefix un. 
Literally, unknown. 

7. Night-raven i= a bird of ill-omen that cries in the night. 

8. Ebon = dark or black. This word has a long pedigree, running back 
through Fr., Lat., Gr., to the Hebrew eben, a stone. It was applied to a 
kind of dense, hard wood, and afterwards came to denote simply a dark 
color. — Lozu-brow^ d = beetle-browed, overhanging. 

9. Ragged ^ xxxggtd, to which it is related. Skeat, in opposition to 
Webster, says there is no reason for connecting it with the A. S. hracod, torn, 
and that its resemblance to the Gr. 'rakos, a shred of cloth, is accidental. 

10. Cimmerian = pertaining to the Cimmerii, a people fabled in ancient 
times to dwell in profound and perpetual darkness. A Cimmerian desert is 
one covered with deep and continual obscurity. 

12. lV/^/V/= called ; from A. S. clypian, to call, the p.p. of which is 
geclypod. The prefix y = A. S. ge. — Euphrosyne = Joy, one of the three 
Graces, her sisters being Aglaia, Beauty, and Thalia, Health. 

14. Venus = the goddess of love and beauty. 

16. Bacchtis = the god of wine. 

17. Some sager sing ^ an allusion, according to some, to Ben Jonson, 
and accordins; to others, to Milton himself. 



NOTES TO MILTON. 3OI 

18. /><?//<: = joyous, sportive; from Dutch w^, glad, and suffix lijk = 
Eng. like. "It seems," says Skeat, "to be one of the rather numerous 
words imported from Dutch in the reign of Elizabeth." 

19. Zephyr and Aurora are personifications of the Toest zuind and the 
daivn. 

22. Fresh-blown. Bloiv, meaning to bloom, is from A. S. hlowan, and 
should not be confounded with blozv, to puff, which is from A. S. blawan. 

24. Buxom = possessing health and beauty combined with liveliness of 
manner. From A. S. biigan, to bend; the original meaning was pliable, 
obedient. Cf. Ger. biegsam, pliant. — Debonair =^ comieows; from Fr. de 
bon air, of good mien. 

25. Nymph = in mythology a goddess of the mountains, forests, mead- 
ows, or waters; otherwise, a lovely maiden. 

26. Jollity = merriment, gayety; from O. Fr. joli, joyful; derived from 
Scandinavian yW, festive. Cf. Eng. Yule. 

27. Quips = playful taunts. It is of Celtic origin. — Cranks = puns or 
twisting of words. From an original root krank, to bend, twist. — JVanton 
= playful, sportive. The true sense is unrestrained, uneducated ; from A. S. 
wan, lacking, and p.p. togen, educated, brought up. Webster gives a differ- 
ent etymology. 

28. Becks = significant movements or signs with the head or hands; from 
A. S. beacen, a sign. 

29. Hebe = the goddess of youth, and cupbearer of the gods. 

34. Fantastick = capricious, indulging the vagaries of the imagination. 
From the Ox. phantazein, f\2\C\n^ the place of ///. 

38. Crezv = a company of people. It is of Scandinavian origin = old 
Icelandic hru. Webster derives it from Fr. cru, p.p. of croitre, to grow. 
The shade of contempt now adhering to the word did not formerly belong 
to it. 

40. Unreproved =^\i\-\'Ci\&\^%'^, irreproachable, in which sense it is now 
obsolete. 

44. Dappled = marked with spots of different colors; from Icel. depill, a 
spot. It has no connection with apple, as sometimes suggested. 

48. ^^/rtw//;/^ = honeysuckle or woodbine; usually sweet-brier, from 
which, however, Milton here distinguishes it. From Fr. eglantine = Low 
Lat. aculentus, prickly. 

60. State = pomp, splendor. 

61. Amber = a yellowish fossil rosin. 

62. Z?7vr/V^ := the uniforms of servants or attendants; from Fr. livrer, 
to deliver, literally meaning a thing delivered, and applied to the clothes 
which a master gives his servant. — Z>/^/i/= adorned ; from A. S. dihtan, to 
set in order, arrange. The full form is dighted, p.p. of dight. 



302 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

66. 6"////t'is the correct spelling of this word, which comes from the A. S. 
sithc. The c in our present spelling is a blunder. 

67. Tale = reckoning by count, enumeration; from A. S. /a/, a number. 
Cf. Ger. Za/il. 

70. Landskip = landscape. The word was borrowed from the Dutch 
painters. Du. landscap. 

71. /v?//^7i;i- == fields that have lain for some time unseeded or unculti- 
vated. From A. S. fealii., yellowish, applied to ploughed land because of its 
yellowish color. 

74. Lab' ri Jig = in travail with rains and storms. 

75. /"zV/^ = spotted; now spelled /m/. 

J 'J. Battlements = notched or indented parapets, originally used only on 
fortifications, but afterwards employed on ecclesiastical and other buildings. 
See Webster. 

78. Bosom'' d = nestling and partly hidden. 

79. Lies = stays or dwells, as very often in old English. 

80. Cynostire = centre of attraction. From Lat. cyjiosnra, the stars 
composiag the constellation of the Lesser Bear, the last of which is the pole- 
star, or centre of attraction to the magnet. From Gr. kuon, dog, and otwa, 
tale, meaning literally a dog's tail. 

83. Corydon, Thyrsis, and Thestylis were shepherds, and Phillis, a 
maiden, in Virgil; here used as typical pastoral names. 

85. Messes = dishes of food, without any tinge of contempt. From O. 
Fr. mes^ dish = Low ^.at. juissiim, that which is set or placed. " Not to be 
derived from A. S. inyse, a table, nor from Lat. mensa, nor from O. H. Ger. 
maz, meat; all of which have been absurdly suggested." — Skeat. The 
etymologies condemned are found in Webster. 

87. Bozuer = a chamber, or lady's apartment; from A. S. hm-, chamber, 
from biui)}, to dwell. 

91. Secure = free from care or anxiety; from Lat. se, away, free from, 
and ctira, care. The derivation from sine ciira, though common, seems to 
be a mistake. The prefix se occurs in secede, seduce, etc. 

94. Rebecks = a kind of fiddle, with two, three, or four strings. It 
comes from the Persian rubab, an instrument struck with a bow, through the 
Italian and French. 

96. Chequered = marked with light and shade, like a checker-board. 
From O. Fr. escliec = Fers'mn Shah, a king. Checkmate ^= shah mat, the 
king is dead. 

98. Holyday = a day of amusement, joy, and gayety. In this sense the 
spelling holiday is preferable. 

99. Livelong = long in passing. 



NOTES TO MILTON. 303 

100. Spicy nut-bro7vn ale = ale seasoned with nutmeg, sugar, toast, and 
roasted apples. Shakespeare refers to it as the " gossips' bowl." 

loi. Teat = a striking act of strength, daring, or skill. From Fr. /ait, 
p.p. oi/aire, to do, from L.a.t. /aeere. 

102. il/ad = the queen of the fairies. — Junkets = sweetmeats, dainties. 
The original meaning was cream cheese %qx\&^ up on rushes, whence its name. 
From Ital. giiinco, a rush = Lat. jtincum. 

103. She and he=^ two of the party telling their tales over the spicy ale. 

104. Frier'' s lantern = the ignis fatiitis, or will-o'-the-wisp. 

105. Goblin = a mischievous sprite or fairy. From O. Fr. gobelin — Low 
Lat. gobelimts, an extension of cobalus = Gr. kobalos, an impudent rogue, 
sprite. 

no. Lnbbar — a heavy, clumsy fellow; now spelled lubber. — Fiend — 
evil spirit; literally, enemy or hater. From A. S. feo7id, pres. p. of fcon, to 
hate. Cf. Ger. Feind, enemy. 

113. Crop/ill = having a full crop or belly. — Flings = rushes; literally, 
throws himself, the reflexive pronoun being omitted. 

1 14. Ere the first cock, etc. This was the signal for ghosts and evil 
spirits to vanish. — Matin = morning. In the plural, morning prayers. 
From Fr. matin = Lat. matutinus, from Matuta, the goddess of morning. 

120. ^Ffi?(^/^ = garments; from A. S. w^^a^, garment. Commonly used 
now only in the phrase " widow's weeds," a widow's mourning dress. 

121. Store = a great number. 

122. Rai;i influence, upon the contending champions, as in the days of 
astrology the planets were supposed to do upon the lives of men. 

124. Her = the lady of the tournament, by whom the prize was bestowed 
upon the successful knight. — Grace = favor; from Fr. grace = Lat. gratia, 
favor. 

125. Hymen = the god of marriage; represented in the masks of the time 
as clad in yellow silk, and bearing a torch in his hand. 

128. Mask = a dramatic entertainment in which masks were worn. 

128. Antique = ancient. In present usage these words are discriminated: 
ancioit is opposed to modern ; as ancient landmarks, ancient institutions. 
Antique is used to designate what has come down from the ancients, or what 
is made in imitation of them; as, an antique cameo, an antique teniple. 
Antic is a doublet of antique. — Pageantry = pompous exhibition or display. 
Pageant originally meant the scaffold or platform on which the miracle plays 
were represented, and afterwards the play itself. From Lat. pagina, scaffold 
or stage. Webster's probable etymology is wrong. 

131. Anon = immediately, at once; from A. S. on an, in one (moment). 
Cf. Eng. at once. 



304 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

132, yonson = Ben Jonson, who was still living when this compliment was 
paid him. — So r /e = comedy; literally, the light-heeled shoe or sock worn 
by comic actors, whence a symbol for comedy. Buskin, a high-heeled boot 
or legging worn by tragic actors, has come to stand for tragedy. 

136. Ly di an = ?,o{i and voluptuous. From Lydia, a country in Asia 
Minor, whose people were notorious for luxurious effeminacy. 

138. /1A't'//;;^''= sympathetic. 

139. Bout = \.\.\\n, bending; also spelled bought. 

141. Giddy = m\x\hi\x\; from A. S. giddian, lo sing, to be merry. In 
present usage it means unsteady, heedless. 

142. yl/rt's^j- = intricacies. 

145. Orpheus ^= a character in Greek mythology, who had power to move 
men and beasts, and even inanimate objects, by the music of his lyre. — 
Heave =^ raise; from A. S. hebhan, to raise. Cf. Ger. heben, to lift. The 
connection of heaven with heave has not, according to Skeat, been clearly 
made out. 

147. Elysian = pertaining to Elysium, the abode of the blessed in the 
other world. It was represented as a region of perpetual spring, clothed 
with continual verdure, enamelled with flowers, shaded by groves, and re- 
freshed by never-failing fountains. 

149. Pluto = the god of the infernal regions; son of Saturn, and brother 
of Jupiter and Neptune. 

150. Eurydice =^ the wife of Orpheus. After her death, caused by the 
bite of a serpent, Orpheus descended into Hades, and so moved Pluto by his 
music that the god consented to her restoration to life, but only on the condi- 
tion that the minstrel would not look back until the regions of day were 
reached. Fearing that .his wife might not be following, the anxious husband 
cast a glance behind, and thereby lost her forever. 

IL PENSEROSO. 

// Penserosu = the thoughtful man. 

I. Vain = empty, worthless; from Fr. vain= Lat. vanus, empty. 

3. Bested = assist. 

4. i^zjri?c/= earnest, steady; from O. Fr. _;fx^ = Lat. fixus, p.p. of 
Jigere, to fix. 

6. Eond = foolish. 

8. Gay tuotes, because of their lively motion in the sunbeam. 
10. Pensioners — dependants. Through the Fr. from Lat. pensus, p.p. 
o{ pendere, to weigh out, to pay. Literally, those to whom money is weighed 
out or paid. — Morpheus = the god of dreams. 



NOTES TO MILTON. 305 

14. To hit the sense = to suit or be adapted to the sense. 

18. Memiion's siste?- ~ some beautiful Ethiopian princess. Merhnon, 
who was liilled by Achilles in the Trojan war, was noted for his beauty. — 
Beseem = suit or become. 

19. Starr'' d Ethiop Queen = Cassiope, wife of Cepheus, king of Ethio- 
pia, Having offended the Nereids by her presumption in setting herself 
above them in beauty, Neptune, sympathizing with the anger of the sea- 
maidens, laid waste the realms of Cepheus by an inundation and sea-monster. 
After her death Cassiope was changed into a constellation; whence the 
epithet starred. 

23. Vesta = goddess of the fireside or domestic hearth. — Of yore = 
of old. From A. S. geara, formerly; originally genitive plu. of gear, 
year. 

24. Solitary Sattirn = the father of Jupiter, Neptune, and Pluto, who 
vvere concealed by their mother. He was accustomed to devour his off- 
spring, whence he is called solitary. 

29. Ida = woody mountains near Troy. 

30. No fear of Jove., that is, before he was banished from the throne 
by Jupiter. 

32. De/nnre =^ oi modest look; from O. Fr. de mtirs, i.e., de bons 
inurs., of good manners. 

33. Darkest grain — Tyrian purple. 

35. Stole = a long, loose garment reaching to the feet, the character- 
istic robe of the Roman matron; but here denoting probably a hood ox veil, in 
which sense the word is used by Spenser. — Cyprus lawn. A dark kind of 
lawn was made in Cyprus. From Lat. linutu, flax, through the French. 

36. Decent^ modest, because covered. From Fr. decent = pres. p. of 
decere, to become, to befit. 

37. Wonted state = usual dignified bearing. 

39. Commercing ^^ communicating. 

40. Rapt = enraptured; from Lat. rapttis, p.p. of rapere, to transport. 

41. Passion = devotion; from Fr. passion =^'L,dii. passionem, ixora pati, 
to suffer. 

42. Forget thyself to marble = become as insensible to surrounding objects 
as a statue. 

43. Leaden = heavy. 

44. Fast = firm, fixed. 
52. Yon = yonder. 

55. Hist along = bring along silently. 

56. 'Less = unless. — Philomel = the nightingale; literally, lover of 



306 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

59. Cynthia = the moon. A surname of Diana, from Mt. Cynthus, in 
the island of Delos, where she was born. Her chariot, however, was not, 
according to classic mythology, drawn by dragons. Ovid speaks of the 
moon's " snow-white horses." 

60. Accusto7ned oak = the particular oak in which the nightingale was 
accustomed to sing. 

61. Noise of folly =^ the sounds of revelry. 

68. Highest nooii = highest point of ascension 

73. Plat = a portion of flat, even ground; a variation oi plot. 

74. Ciirfeii = the ringing of a bell at nightfall as a signal to extinguish 
fires and lights. The custom was introduced into England by William the 
Conqueror. 

78. Reinoved = remote. — • Will fit = will be suitable. 
80. Counterfeit = imitate; from Fr. centre., against, 2SiAfaire., to make; 
Lat. contra z.r\d facere. 

83. Belhnan^s drotvsy char??i = the watchman, who with a bell patrolled 
the streets at night before the establishment of the present police system, and 
called out the hours. Charm = song, incantation; from Fr. char/ne = Lat. 
carjnen, song. The bellman frequently made use of rhyme; as, — 

" Mercie secure ye all and keep 
The goblin from ye, while ye sleep, 
Past one o'clock, and almost two, 
My masters all, good-day to you." 

84. Nightly harm = harm at night. 

87. Otd7vatch the Bear. — The "Bear" refers to the constellation of 
that name, which in England never sets. The poet means that he will 
remain awake all night. 

88. Thrice-great Hertnes = a personification of the Egyptian priesthood; 
to him was ascribed the invention of language and writing, geometry, arith- 
metic, astronomy, medicine, music, religion, etc. 

89. Plato = a celebrated Greek philosopher born 429 B.C. To unsphere 
his spirit means to call it back from Elysium. 

95. Consent = harmony, agreement. From Fr. consentir = Lat. con, for 
cum, together, and sentire, to feel. 

98. Sceptred pall = royal robe. Pall = A. S. paell, from Lat. palla, a 
mantle. 

99. Oedipus of Thebes, Pelops, and the heroes of the Trojan war, were 
the favorite subjects of Attic tragedy. 

102. Buskin'd. — See note on IJ Allegro, 132. Milton was probably 
thinking of Hamlet, Othello, and King Lear. 



NOTES TO MILTON. 307 

104. Musiciis = an early Greek bard. 

105. Orpheus. — See note on Z'.-7/A'^^r(), 145, 150. 

109. Him = Chaucer. The reference is to the " Squire's Tale," which 
was left unfinished. Canibuscan was a Tartar king, who had two sons, 
Camball and Algarsife, and a daughter Canace. 

116. Gf'eat bards beside = probably Tasso, Ariosto, and Spenser, who 
were great favorites with Milton. 

120. Where more is vieant, etc. — A reference no doubt to Spenser's 
" Faery Queene," in which the poet had a high moral purpose. 

122. Civil-suited :^ dressed in the garb of a plain citizen. 

123. Trick\i = tricked out, showily dressed. — Frounced = frizzled and 
curled. 

124. Attic boy = Cephalus, whom she carried off. 

125. yv>;'c7/<^// = having the head covered. A more correct spelling 
would be C2irchief ; from Fr. convre, cover, and chef, head. Cf. cur/eu. 

134. Sylvan = Sylvanus, god of the woods. From Lat. sylva, woods. 

136. //mz/^^/ = uplifted. See note on Z'^/Z^'^T^, 145. 

140. /'r<y<?;/^v- = unsympathetic. From Lat. /re?, before, and /a /mm, 
temple; hence, outside the temple, not sacred, secular. 

142. Honied thigh. — This is a mistake, for the bee collects the honey in 
its crop. What we see on the " thigh " is pollen. 

145. Consort =^ harmony of sounds. 

156. Studious cloysters pale = an enclosure or place of retirement de- 
voted to study and religion. He is probably thinking of St. Paul's, where 
he went to school. 

157. High-embo7ued = with lofty arches. 

158. Antick. — See note on H Allegro, 128. 

159. Dight. — See note on H Allegro, 62. 
170. Spell — xftad. 

174. Strain = rank, character; in which sense it is now obsolete. 



THE RESTORATION. 



REPRESENTATIVE WRITER. 

JOHN DRYDEN. 

OTHER PROMINENT WRITERS. 

Poet. — Samuel Butler. 

Dramatists. — Wycherly, Congreve, Farquhar. 

Diarists. — Pepys, Evelyn. 

Preachers. — Barrow, South, Tillotson. 

PhilosopJiers. — ^Hobbes, Newton, Cudworth, Locke. 

Miscella)ieoiis. — Walton, Temple. 



IV. 

THE RESTORATION. 

1660-1700. 

General Survey. — Every extreme tends to beget a 
reaction. Nowhere is the truth of this principle more 
strikingly exemplified than in England at the time of the 
Restoration. With all its moral earnestness and love of 
freedom, Puritanism had degenerated into a false and for- 
bidding asceticism. It condemned many innocent pleas- 
ures. It clothed morality and religion in a garb of cant. 
The claims of the physical and intellectual parts of man 
were, under the influence of a terrific theology, sacrificed 
to his spiritual interests. All spontaneous joy and gayety 
were banished from life. The Puritan's steps were slow ; his 
face was elongated ; his tone had a nasal quality. He gave 
his children names drawn from the Scriptures ; and shut- 
ting his eyes to the beauties of the world about him, and 
forgetting the infinite love of God, he lived perpetually in 
the shadow of divine wrath. His religion, at war with 
nature and the gospel, degenerated into fanaticism, and 
weighed heavily upon the life of the English nation. 

With the Restoration, Puritanism was overthrown. 
The Royalist party, with its sharp contrasts to Puritan 
principles, again came into power. The result in its moral 
effects was dreadful. The stream of license, which had 
been held in check for years, burst forth with fearful 

3" 



312 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

momentum. The reign of the flesh set in. Virtue was 
held to savor of Puritanism ; duty was thought to smack 
of fanaticism ; and integrity, patriotism, and honor were 
regarded as mere devices for self-aggrandizement. Under 
the lead of Charles IL, himself a notorious libertine, the 
court became a scene of shameless and almost incredible 
debauchery. The effect upon literature can be easily 
imagined. It debased the moral tone of poetry and the 
drama to a shocking degree. As Dryden tells us in one 
of his epilogues, — 

" The poets who must live by courts, or starve, 
Were proud so good a government to serve; 
And, mixing with buffoons and pimps profane, 
Tainted the stage, for some small snip of gain." 

But there are other respects in which the Restoration 
affected literature. Charles II. returned to England with 
French companions and French tastes. It was but natu- 
ral, therefore, that English literature should be influenced 
by French models. It was the Augustan age of litera- 
ture in France. Louis XIV., the most powerful monarch 
in Europe, had gathered about him the best literary talent 
of the age. Corneille, Moliere, and Racine gave great 
splendor to dramatic poetry, and Boileau developed the art 
of criticism. But the French drama, besides following 
classical models in regard to the unities, imposed the 
burden of rhymed couplets upon dramatic composition. 
It was in obedience to the wish of Charles that rhyme 
was first introduced into the English drama. Through 
French influence the course of the drama, as it had been 
developed by the great Elizabethans, was seriously inter- 
rupted. 



THE RESTORATION. 313 

But in respect to literary criticism, the influence of 
France was more salutary. Boileau had displayed great 
critical acumen in estimating French authors, and had laid 
down correct principles by which to judge literary com- 
position. The art of criticism took root in England. 
Dryden, whom Johnson calls the father of English criti- 
cism, sat at the feet of his great French contemporary, 
and in his numerous prefaces exhibited admirable judg- 
ment in weighing the productions both of ancient and 
modern times. 

The Restoration gave a new impulse to natural science. 
Charles II. was himself something of a chemist, and 
even the profligate Buckingham varied his debaucheries 
with experiments in his laboratory. In 1662 the Royal 
Society was founded, and for half a century inventions 
and discoveries in science followed one another in rapid 
succession. The national observatory at Greenwich was 
established. The spirit of investigation showed great 
vigor. Halley studied the tides, comets, and terrestrial 
magnetism. Boyle improved the air-pump, and founded 
experimental chemistry. Mineralogy, zoology, and botany 
either had their beginning or made noteworthy progress 
at this time. It was the age of Sir Isaac Newton. 

But this period was one of ferment and transition. 
Old faiths in politics, philosophy, and religion were being 
cast aside. Tradition and custom were summoned before 
the bar of reason. " From the moment of the Restora- 
tion," says Green, ''we find ourselves all at once among 
the great currents of thought and activity which have 
gone on widening and deepening from that time to this. 
The England around us becomes our England, an Eng- 
land whose chief forces are industry and science, the love 



314 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

of popular freedom and of law, an England which presses 
steadily forward to a larger social justice and equality, and 
which tends more and more to bring every custom and 
tradition, religious, intellectual, and political, to the test of 
pure reason." The belief in the divine right of kmgs 
became a thing of the past. With the Revolution of 
1688, which placed William of Orange on the throne, the 
prolonged conflict between the people and the king came 
to an end. The executive supremacy was transferred from 
the crown to the House of Commons. 

The asperities of theological parties began to give 
way. Within the Church of England there arose a class 
of divines who, because of their tolerant views, were stig- 
matized as 'Platitudinarians." Avoiding the scholasticism 
of the preceding age, they studied Scripture with a genial 
spirit. The evils of strife, as well as a sense of danger 
from infidelity, made them desire Christian unity, which 
they recognized as the normal condition of the church. 
Among the most distinguished of these broad churchmen 
were Ralph Cudworth, Henry More, and John Tillotson. 

A still more important movement in theology was the 
rise of Deism, which owed its prevalence to several co- 
operative causes. As we have seen, there was a general 
tendency to break away from the restraints of authority 
in every department of thought. The divisions and ani- 
mosities of the church tended to unsettle the faith of 
many in the teachings of Christianity. And above all, 
perhaps, the license of the age sought to emancipate itself 
from the restraints of divine law. 

In its progress Deism showed a rapid declension. It 
began with Lord Herbert of Cherbury, who reduced reli- 
gion to five points : i, that there is a God ; 2, that he is 



THE RESTORATION. 315 

to be worshipped ; 3, that piety and virtue are the prin- 
cipal parts of this worship ; 4, that men should repent 
and forsake sin ; and 5, that good will be rewarded and 
sin punished. This scheme of doctrine represents Deism 
at its best. The writings of the deists, among whom 
may be mentioned Hobbes, Blount, and Lord Boling- 
broke, naturally called forth many replies. The contro- 
versy, which was protracted into the eighteenth century, 
was conducted with great ability on both sides. Among 
the defenders of Christianity, with whom ultimately re- 
mained the victory, were Cudworth, John Locke the 
philosopher, and Joseph Butler, the author of the famous 
*' Analogy." 



3l6 ENGLISH LITERATUI^E. 



JOHN DRYDEN. 

The greatest name in the literature of this period is John 
Dryden. He does not deserve, indeed, to stand by the side of 
Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, or Milton ; but after these great 
names he comes at the head of the second rank. It was the 
fault of his age that he was not greater. No man can wholly 
detach himself from the influences by which he is surrounded ; 
and Dryden came on the stage when a false taste prevailed, and 
when licentiousness gave moral tone to poetry. Living in the 
midst of burning religious and political questions, he was drawn 
into the vortex of controversy. He was always a partisan in 
some religious or political issue of the day. While this fact 
has given us some of the best satirical and didactic poems in 
our language, it did not contribute, perhaps, to the largest 
development of his poetical powers. 

His aims were not high enough. "I confess," he said, "my 
chief endeavors are to delight the age in which I live. If the 
humor of this be for low comedy, small accidents, and raillery, I 
will force my genius to obey it." This was a voluntary degrading 
of his genius, and an intentional renouncing of the artistic spirit. 
Guided by such motives, it was impossible for him to attain the 
highest results. If, like Milton, he had concentrated all the 
energies of his strong nature on an epic poem, as he once con- 
templated, or on poetry as an art, his work would no doubt have 
been less faulty. But, taking him as he was, we cannot help 
admiring his genius, which created for him a distinct place in 
English literature. 

Dryden was born of good family in Northamptonshire, in 
1 63 1. Both on his father's and his mother's side his ancestry 
was Puritan and republican. He was educated at Westminster 



JOHN DRYDEN. 317 

school, under the famous Dr. Busby. A school-boy poem on 
the death of Lord Hastings had the distinction, and we may 
add the misfortune, of being published in connection with sev- 
eral other elegies called forth by the same event. Some of its 
conceits are exceedingly ridiculous. The young nobleman had 
died of the small-pox, and Dryden exclaims : — 

" Was there no milder way than the small-pox, 
The very filthiness of Pandora's box? " 

Of the pustules he says : — 

" Each little pimple had a tear in it, 

To wail the fault its rising did commit." 

And as the climax of this absurdity : — 

" No comet need foretell his change drew on, 
Whose corpse might seem a constellation." 

Dryden's genius was slow in maturing, and much of his 
early work failed to give promise of his future eminence. 

He entered Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1650, and took 
his degree of Bachelor of Arts in 1654. No details of his 
college life have come down to us, except his punishment on 
one occasion for " disobedience to the vice-master, and contu- 
macy in taking his punishment, inflicted by him." In 1654, 
by the death of his father, he came into the possession of a 
small estate worth about sixty pounds a year. After leaving 
Cambridge, for which he entertained no great affection, he 
went to London, and served for a time as secretary to his 
cousin. Sir Gilbert Pickering, a favorite of Cromwell. 

In 1658 he composed "Heroic Stanzas" on the death of 
Oliver Cromwell, which caused him to be spoken of as a rising 
poet. Though disfigured here and there by conceits, it is, upon 
the whole, a strong, manly poem, showing a just appreciation of 
the great Protector's life. His next effort does not reflect credit 



3l8 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

on his character. It was the " Astraea Redux," written " on 
the happy restoration and return of his sacred Majesty, Charles 
II." After his eulogy of Cromwell two years before, we are 
hardly prepared for such lines as these : — 

" For his long absence Church and State did groan; 
Madness the pulpit, faction seized the throne : 
Experienced age in deep despair was lost, 
To see the rebel thrive, the loyal cross'd." 

In 1663 he began to write for the stage. Instead of seek- 
ing to elevate public morals, or to attain perfection in art, it is 
to the lasting discredit of Dryden that he pandered to the 
vicious taste of the time. His first play, " The Wild Gallant," 
was not successful ; and Pepys, in his " Diary," pronounced it 
" so poor a thing as ever I saw in my life." Without following 
him through the vicissitudes of his dramatic career, it is enough 
to say that he wrote in all twenty-eight comedies and tragedies, 
and at length established his position as the lirst dramatist of 
his time. For a long time he followed French models, but at 
last came to recognize and professedly to imitate the " divine 
Shakespeare." In his comedies, as he tells us, he copied " the 
gallantries of the court." When in later years Jeremy Collier 
severely attacked the immoralities of the stage, Dryden, unlike 
several of his fellow dramatists who attempted a reply, pleaded 
guilty, and retracted all thoughts and expressions that could be 
fairly charged with " obscenity, profaneness, or immorality." 

In his tragedies he imitated the heroic style of Corneille. 
They contain much splendid declamation, which too often 
degenerates into bombast. But frequently he reaches the 
height of genuine poetry. Only a poet could have written 
these lines : — 

" Something like 
That voice, methinks, I should have somewhere heard; 
But floods of woe have hurried it far off 
Beyond my ken of soul." 



JOHN DRYDEN. 319 

Or these : — 

" I feel death rising higher still and higher 
Within my bosom; every breath I fetch 
Shuts up my life within a shorter compass, 
And, like the vanishing sound of bells, grows less 
And less each pulse, till it be lost in air." 

When he moralizes he is often admirable : — 

" The gods are just, 
But how can finite measure infinite? 
Reason ! alas, it does not know itself ! 
Yet man, vain man, would with his short-lined plummet 
Fathom the vast abyss of heavenly justice. 
Whatever is, is in its causes just, 
Since all things are by fate. But purblind man 
Sees but a part o' th' chain, the nearest links. 
His eyes not carrying to that equal beam 
That poises all above." 

But the drama was not Dryden's sphere. In his mind the 
judgment had the ascendency over the imagination. He was 
strongest in analyzing, arguing, criticising. He was a master 
of satire — not indeed of that species which slovenly butchers 
a man, to use his own comparison, but rather of that species 
which has " the fineness of stroke to separate the head from 
the body, and leave it standing in its place." We shall say 
nothing of his " Annus Mirabilis," a long poem on the Dutch 
war and the London fire, except that it contains some of his 
manliest lines. It is not easy to surpass, — 

" Silent in smoke of cannon they come on; " 

" And his loud guns speak thick, like angry men;" 

" The vigorous seaman every port-hole plies, 
And adds his heart to every gun he fires." 

In 1 68 1 appeared the famous satire, "Absalom and Achit- 
ophel," the object of which was to bring discredit on the Earl 



320 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

of Shaftesbury and his adherents, who were seeking to secure 
the succession to the throne for the Duke of Monmouth, 
Charles's eldest son. It has been called the best political 
satire ever written. There is no effort at playful and delicate 
art ; the poem was composed in earnest, and it abounds in 
hard, sweeping, stunning blows. It was eagerly seized upon 
by the public, and in a year no fewer than nine editions were 
called for. The Earl of Shaftesbury figures as Achitophel : — 

" A name to all succeeding ages cursed : 
For close designs, and crooked counsels fit; 
Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit; 
Restless, unfix'd in principles and place; 
In power unpleased, impatient of disgrace : 
A fiery soul, which, working out its way. 
Fretted the pigmy-body to decay. 
And o'er-inform'd the tenement of clay; 
A daring pilot in extremity; 

Pleased with the danger, when the waves went high, 
He sought the storms; but, for a calm unfit, 
Would steer too nigh the sands to boast his wit." 

The Duke of Buckingham is Zimri, whose character is 
outlined with astonishing power : — 

"A man so various, that he seemed to be 
Not one, but all mankind's epitome: 
Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong; 
Was every thing by starts, and nothing long: 
But in the course of one revolving moon. 
Was chymist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon: 
Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking. 
Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking. 
Bless'd madman, who could every hour employ. 
With something new to wish, or to enjoy ! 
Railing and praising were his usual themes; 
And both, to show his judgment, in extremes." 

In 1682 appeared the " Religio Laici," which is appended 
for special study. As an exposition of a layman's faith, it was 



JOHN DRYDEN. 32 1 

probably an honest presentation of Dryden's beliefs at the time. 
Whether intended to serve a political purpose or not, is a 
matter of dispute ; but it attacks the Papists, and at the same 
time declares the " Fanatics," by whom are meant the Non- 
conformists, still more dangerous — a declaration that accorded 
well with Charles's policy of persecution. It is entirely didac- 
tic in character, and deservedly ranks as one of the very best 
poems of its class in English. Though it is closely argumen- 
tative throughout, it still contains passages of much beauty. 
The opening lines are justly admired : — 

"Dim as the borrowed beams of moon and stars 
To lonely, weary, wandering travellers 
Is Reason to the soul : and as on high 
Those rolling fires discover but the sky. 
Not light us here, so Reason's glimmering ray 
Was lent, not to assure our doubtful way, 
But guide us upward to a better day. 
And as those nightly tapers disappear 
When day's bright lord ascends our hemisphere, 
So pale grows Reason at Religion's sight, 
So dies, and so dissolves in supernatural light." 

In the preface to the poem, Dryden has given us the ideal 
of style at which he aimed and which he largely realized : " If 
any one be so lamentable a critic as to require the smoothness, 
the numbers, and the turn of heroic poetry in this poem, I must 
tell him, that, if he has not read Horace, I have studied him, 
and hope the style of his Epistles is not ill imitated here. 
The expressions of a poem designed purely for instruction 
ought to be plain and natural, and yet majestic : for here the 
poet is presumed to be a kind of lawgiver, and those three 
qualities which I have named are proper to the legislative 
style. The florid, elevated, and figurative way is for the pas- 
sions ; for love and hatred, fear and anger, are begotten in the 
soul by showing their objects out of their true proportion, 
either greater than the life or less ; but instruction is to be 



322 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

given by showing them what- they naturally are. A man is to 
be cheated into passion, but to be reasoned into truth." 

On the accession of James in 1685, Dryden became a 
Roman Catholic. This conversion has given rise to con- 
siderable discussion. Did it result from conviction or from 
self-interest ? It is impossible to determine. But, in the 
moderate language of Johnson, " That conversion will always 
be suspected that apparently concurs with interest. He that 
never finds his error till it hinders his progress towards wealth 
or honor, will not be thought to love truth only for herself. Yet 
it may easily happen that information may come at a commodi- 
ous time, and as truth and interest are not by any fatal neces- 
sity at variance, that one may by accident introduce the other. 
When opinions are struggling into popularity, the arguments by 
which they are opposed or defended become more known, and 
he that changes his profession would perhaps have changed it 
before, with the like opportunities of instruction. This was 
then the state of popery ; every artifice was used to show it in 
its fairest form ; and it must be owned to be a religion of 
external appearance sufficiently attractive." 

As a result of this conversion we have the " Hind and 
Panther," a poem of twenty-five hundred lines, which is devoted 
to the defence of the Roman Church. This church is repre- 
sented by the " milk-white hind," and the Church of England 
by the panther, a beautiful but spotted animal. Published at 
a time of heated religious controversy, it had a wide circula- 
tion. It was regarded by Pope as the most correct specimen 
of Dryden's versification ; and there can be no doubt that the 
author, knowing it would be criticised with the most unfriendly 
rigor, elaborated it with unusual care. The opening lines are 
beautiful : — 

' A milk-white Hind, immortal and unchanged, 
Fed on the lawns, and in the forest ranged; 
Without unspotted, innocent within, 
She feared no danger, for she knew no sin. 



JOHN DRYDEN. 323 

Yet hath she oft been chased with horns and hounds 
And Scythian shafts, and many winged wounds 
Aimed at her heart; was often forced to fly, 
And doomed to death, though fated not to die." 

At the Revolution, Dryden did not abjure his faith, and, as 
a consequence, lost his office as poet laureate. In addition to 
the loss of his pension, which he could ill afford to suffer, he 
had the chagrin of seeing his rival, Shadwell, elevated to his 
place. Against him he wrote at this time one of his keenest 
satires, entitled, " Mac Flecknoe." Flecknoe, who had gov- 
erned long, and — 

" In prose and verse was owned, without dispute, 
Through all the realms of Nonsense, absolute," 

at length decides to settle the succession of the state, — 

" And, pondering, which of all his sons was fit 
To reign, and wage immortal war with wit, 
Cried, ' 'Tis resolved; for nature pleads, that he 
Should only rule, who most resembles me. 
Shadwell alone my perfect image bears, 
Mature in dullness from his tender years: 
Shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he. 
Who stands confirm'd in full stupidity. 
The rest to some faint meaning make pretence, 
But Shadwell never deviates into sense.' " 

Once more thrown upon his pen for support, Dryden turned 
to the stage, but chiefly to translation. In 1693 he published 
a volume of miscellanies, which contained translations from 
Homer and Ovid ; and a little later appeared the satires of 
Juvenal and Persius. His theory of translation, as set forth in 
his prefaces, is better than his practice. He takes liberties 
with his author; and, as was the case with him in all his writ- 
ings, he is far from painstaking. Besides, instead of mitigating, 
he magnified their obscenity. But, upon the whole, the trans- 
lations are of high excellence. The most important of his 



;:^ ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

translations was that of Virgil's ** .ineid," on which he labored 
three years. The public expectation was great, and it was not 
disappointed. Pope pronounced it "the most noble and 
spirited translation that I know in any language." 

Among his songs and odes, the best known is " Alexander's 
Feast.'" He wrote it at a single sitting, and afterwards spent a 
fortnight in polishing it. It is justly considered one of the 
finest odes in our language. Dryden himself declared that it 
would never be surpassed. It was. perhaps, the last effort of 
his poetic genius, composed amid the pressing infirmities of 
age. It Wis r::i :_. :; use the beautiful words of one of his 

heroes, that. — 

"•Asettii^ sun 
Should leave a track of gloiy in the skies." 

He died May i, 1700, and was buried with imposing pomp in 
\\'estminster Abbey. 

Dryden's prose is scarcely less excellent than his verse. 
He wrote much on criticism in the form of prefaces tc / = - 
ous works. He avoided, as a rule, the common mistaken 1^ :^c 
prose of his time — inordinately long sentences and tedious 
parenthetic clauses. He says he formed his prose style on 
Tillotson ; but TiQotson never had the ease, point, and brilliancy 
of Dryden. He was a clear, strong thinker, with a great deal 
to say; and often compressing his thought into a few well- 
chosen words, he sent them forth like shots from a rifle. He 
delighted in argument ; and on either side of a question, he 
(X)uld marshal his points with almost matchless skill. \Miether 
attacking or defending the Roman Church, he showed equal 
power. 

Dryden did not attain to the highest regions of poetrv'. 
He could not portray what is deepest and finest in human ex- 
perience. His strong, masculine hands were too clumsy. He 
has no charm of pathos; he does not touch that part of our 
nature where "* thoughts do often lie too deep for tears. '^ But 
he was a virile thinker, and a master of the English tongue. 



JOHN DRYDEN. 325 

He had the gift of using the right word ; and in the words of 
Lowell, he " sometimes carried common-sense to a height where 
it catches the light of a diviner air, and warmed reason till it 
had well-nigh the ilkiminating property of intuition." 

He made literature a trade. He wrote rapidly ; and having 
once finished a piece, he did not, year after year, patiently re- 
touch it into perfection. Perhaps he wrote too much. Vol- 
taire said that he " would have a glory without a blemish, if he 
had only written the tenth part of his works." Yet, in spite of 
his faults, we recognize and admire his extraordinary intellec- 
tual force, and the indisputable greatness of his literary work. 
At Will's coffee-house, where his chair had in winter a prescrip- 
tive place by the fire, and in summer a choice spot on the 
balcony, he was fitted, beyond all others of his time, to reign 
as literary dictator. 

For the rest, we shall let Congreve speak — the poet whom 
Dryden implored "to be kind to his remains," and who was 
not untouched by the appeal. " Mr. Dryden," says his friend, 
" had personal qualities to challenge both love and esteem from 
all who were truly acquainted with him. He was of a nature 
exceedingly humane and compassionate, easily forgiving inju- 
ries, and capable of a prompt and sincere reconciliation with 
those who had offended him. Such a temperament is the only 
solid foundation of all moral virtues and sociable endowments. 
His friendship, when he professed it, went much beyond his 
professions, though his hereditary income was little more than 
a bare competency. As his reading had been extensive, so was 
he very happy in a memory tenacious of everything he read. 
He was not more possessed of knowledge than communicative 
of it, but then his communication of it was by no means pedan- 
tic, or imposed upon the conversation : but just such, and went 
so far, as by the natural turn of the discourse in which he was 
engaged, it was necessarily promoted or required. He was ex- 
tremely ready and gentle in his correction of the errors of any 
writer who thought fit to consult him, and felt as ready and 



326 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

patient to admit of the reprehension of others in respect of his 
own oversight or mistakes. He was of very easy, I may say, of 
very pleasing access, but somewhat slow, and, as it were, diffi- 
dent in his advances to others. He had something in his 
nature that abhorred intrusion into any society whatever : 
indeed, it is to be regretted that he was rather blamable in the 
other extreme ; for by that means he was personally less known, 
and consequently his character will become liable to misappre- 
hension and misrepresentation. To the best of my knowledge 
and observation, he was, of all men that ever I knew, one of 
the most modest and the most easily to be discountenanced in 
his approaches either to his superiors or his equals." 



KELIGIO LAICI. 327 



RELIGIO LAICI; 

OR A LAYMAN'S FAITH. 

Dim as the borrowed beams of moon and stars 

To lonely, weary, wandering travellers. 

Is Reason to the soul : and as on high 

Those rolling fires discover but tlie sky, 

Not light us here, so Reason's glimmering ray 

Was lent, not to assure our doubtful way, 

But guide us upward to a better day. 

And as those nightly tapers disappear 

When day's bright lord ascends our hemisphere, 

So pale grows Reason at Religion's sight, 10 

So dies, and so dissolves in supernatural light. 

Some few, whose lamp shone brighter, have been led 

From cause to cause to Nature's secret head, 

And found that one first principle must be ; 

But what or who that universal He ; 

Whether some soul encompassing this ball, 

Unmade, unmoved, yet making, moving all. 

Or various atoms' interfering dance 

Leapt into form (the noble work of chance,) 

Or this great All was from eternity, 20 

Not even the Stagirite himself could see, 

And Epicurus guessed as well as he. 

As blindly groped they for a future state, 

As rashly judged of Providence and Fate. 

But least of all could their endeavours find 

What most concerned the good of human kind ; 

For Happiness was never to be found, 

But vanished from them like enchanted ground. 

One thought Content the good to be enjoyed ; 

This every little accident destroyed. 30 

The wiser madmen did for Virtue toil, 

A thornv, or at best a barren soil ; 



328 ENQLISH LITERATURE. 

In Pleasure some their glutton souls would steep. 

But found their line too short, the well too deep. 

And leaky vessels which no bliss could keep. 

Thus anxious thoughts in endless circles roll, 

Without a centre where to fix the soul. 

In this wild maze their vain endeavours end : 

How can the less the greater comprehend ? 

Or finite Reason reach Infinity ? 40 

For what could fathom God were more than He. 

The Deist thinks he stands on firmer ground, 
Cries eureka, the mighty secrefs found : 
God is that spring of good, supreme and best, 
We made to serve, and in that service blest ; 
If so, some rules of worship must be given, 
Distributed alike to all by Heaven ; 
Else God were partial, and to some denied 
The means His justice should for all provide. 
This general worship is to praise and pray ; 50 

One part to borrow blessings, one to pa}' ; 
And when frail nature slides into offence. 
The sacrifice for crime is penitence. 
Yet since the effects of Providence, we find, 
Are variously dispensed to human kind ; 
That vice triumphs and virtue suflTers here, 
(A brand that sovereign justice cannot bear :) 
Our Reason prompts us to a future state. 
The last appeal from Fortune and from Fate, 
Where God's all-righteous ways will be declared, 60 

The bad meet punishment, the good reward. 

Thus man by his own strength to Heaven would soar 
And would not be obliged to God for more. 
Vain, wretched creature, how art thou misled 
To think thy wit these god-like notions bred ! 
These truths are not the product of thy mind. 
But dropped from Heaven, and of a nobler kind. 
Revealed Religion first informed thy sight, 
And Reason saw not till Faith sprung the light. 
Hence all thy natural worship takes its source : 70 

■Tis Revelation what thou thinkst Discourse. 



RELIGIO LAIC I. 329 

Else how com'st thou to see these truths so clear, 

Which so obscure to heathens did appear ? 

Not Plato these, nor Aristotle found. 

Nor he whose wisdom oracles renowned. 

Hast thou a wit so deep or so sublime, 

Or canst thou lower dive or higher climb ? 

Canst thou by reason more of Godhead know 

Than Plutarch, Seneca, or Cicero ? 

Those giant wits, in happier ages born, 80 

When arms and arts did Greece and Rome adorn. 

Knew no such system ; no such piles could raise 

Of natural worship, built on prayer and praise 

To one sole GOD : 

Nor did remorse to expiate sin prescribe. 

But slew their fellow creatures for a bribe : 

The guiltless victim groaned for their offence. 

And cruelty and blood was penitence. 

If sheep and oxen could atone for men. 

Ah ! at how cheap a rate the rich might sin ! 9° 

And great oppressors might Heaven's wrath beguile 

By offering his own creatures for a spoil ! 

Barest thou, poor worm, offend Infinity ? 
And must the terms of peace be given by thee ? 
Then thou art Justice in the last appeal ; 
Thy easy God instructs thee to rebel. 
And, like a king remote and weak, must take 
What satisfaction thou art pleased to make. 

But if there be a power too just and strong 
To wink at crimes and bear unpunished wrong, 100 

Look humbly upward, see his will disclose 
The forfeit first, and then the fine impose : 
A mulct thy poverty could never pay. 
Had not eternal Wisdom found the way. 
And with celestial wealth supplied thy store ; 
His justice makes the fine, His mercy quits the score. 
See God descending in thy human frame ; 
The offended suffering in the offender's name : 
All thy misdeeds to Him imputed see, 
And all His righteousness devolved on thee. no 



330 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

For granting we have sinned, and that the offence 
Of man is made against Omnipotence, 
Some price that bears proportion must be paid. 
And infinite with infinite be weighed. 
See then the Deist lost : remorse for vice 
Not paid, or paid inadequate in price : 
What further means can Reason now direct, 
Or what rehef from human wit expect ? 
That shows us sick ; and sadl_v are we sure 
Still to be sick, till Heaven reveal the cure : 120 

If then Heaven's will must needs be understood. 
Which must, if we want cure and Heaven be good. 
Let all records of will revealed be shown, 
With Scripture all in equal balance thrown, 
And our one Sacred Book will be that one. 

Proof needs not here ; for whether we compare 
That impious, idle, superstitious ware 
Of rites, lustrations, offerings, which before. 
In various ages, various countries bore, 

With Christian Faith and Virtues, we shall find 130 

None answering the great ends of human kind, 
But this one rule of life ; that shows us best 
How God may be appeased and mortals blest. 
Whether from length of time its worth we draw, 
The world is scarce more ancient than the law: 
Heaven's earl}- care prescribed for every age. 
First, in the soul, and after, in the page. 
Or whether more abstractedly we look 
Or on the writers or the written book. 

Whence but from Heaven could men, unskilled in arts, 140 
In several ages born, in several parts. 
Weave such agreeing truths ? or how or why 
Should all conspire to cheat us with a lie? 
Unasked their pains, ungrateful their advice. 
Starving their gain and martyrdom their price. 

If on the Book itself we cast our view, 
Concurrent heathens prove the story true : 
The doctrine, miracles ; which must convince, 
For Heaven in them appeals to human sense ; 



RELIGIO LAIC I. 33 I 

And though they prove not, they confirm the cause, 150 

When what is taught agrees with Nature's laws. 

Then for the style, majestic and divine. 
It speaks no less than God in every line ; 
Commanding words, whose force is still the same 
As the first fiat that produced our frame. 
All faiths beside or did by arms ascend, 
Or sense indulged has made mankind their friend ; 
This only doctrine does our lusts oppose, 
Unfed by nature's soil, in which it grows. 
Cross to our interests, curbing sense and sin ; 160 

Oppressed without and undermined within, 
It thrives through pain ; its own tormenters tires, 
And with a stubborn patience still aspires. 
To what can Reason such effects assign, 
Transcending Nature, but to laws divine.'* 
Which in that sacred volume are contained ; 
Sufficient, clear, and for that use ordained. 

Buj; stay ; the Deist here will urge anew. 
No supernatural worship can be true ; 

Because a general law is that alone 17° 

Which must to all and everywhere be known : 
A style so large as not this Book can claim, 
Nor aught that bears Revealed Religion's name. 
'Tis said the sound of a Messiah's birth 
Is gone through all the habitable earth ; 
But still that text must be confined alone 
To what was then inhabited, and known : 
And what provision could from thence accrue 
To Indian souls and worlds discovered new? 
In other parts it helps, that, ages past, 180 

The Scriptures there were known, and were embraced. 
Till Sin spread once again the shades of night : 
What's that to these who never saw the light ? 

Of all objections this indeed is chief 
To startle reason, stagger frail belief: 
We grant, "'tis true, that Heaven from human sense 
Has hid the secret paths of Providence ; 
But boundless wisdom, boundless mercy may 



332 EXGLISH LITERATURE. 

Find even for those bewildered souis a way ; 
If from His nature foes may pity claim, 19° 

Much more may strangers who ne'er heard His name. 
And though no name be for salvation known, 
But that of His Eternal Son's alone ; 
Who knows how far transcending goodness can 
Extend the merits of that Son to man? 
Who knows what reasons may His mercy lead, 
Or ignorance invincible may plead? 
Not only charity bids hope the best, 
But more the great Apostle has exprest : 

That if the Gentiles, whom no law inspired, 200 

By nature did what was by law required. 
They who the written rule had never known 
Were to themselves both rule and law alone. 
To Nature's plain indictment they shall plead 
And by their conscience be condemned or freed. 
Most righteous doom ! because a rule revealed 
Is none to those from whom it was concealed- 
Then those who followed Reason's dictates right, 
Lived up. and lifted high their natural light. 
With Socrates may see their Maker's face, 210 

While thousand rubric-martyrs want a place. 

Nor does it baulk m}- charity to find 
The Egyptian Bishop of another mind : 
For, though his Creed eternal truth contains, 
'Tis hard for man to doom to endless pains 
All who believed not all his zeal required. 
Unless he first could prove he was inspired. 
Then let us either think he meant to say 
This faith, where published, was the only way; 
Or else conclude that. Arius to confute. 220 

The good old man. too eager in dispute. 
Flew high : and, as his Christian fury rose, 
Damned all for heretics who durst oppose. 

Thus far my charity this path hath tried, 
(A much unskilful, but well meaning guide ;) 
Yet what they are. even these crude thoughts were bred 
Bv readino^ that which better thou hast read, 



RELIGIO LAIC I. 333 

Thy matchless author's work, which thou, my friend. 

By well translating better dost commend. 

Those youthful hours, which of thy equals most 230 

In toys have squandered or in vice have lost, 

Those hours hast thou to nobler use employed, 

And the severe delights of truth enjoyed. 

Witness this weighty book, in which appears 

The crabbed toil of many thoughtful years, 

Spent by thy author in the sifting care 

Of Rabbins' old sophisticated ware 

From gold divine, which he who well can sort 

May afterwards make Algebra a sport ; 

A treasure which, if country curates buy, 240 

They Junius and Tremellius may defy, 

Save pains in various readings and translations, 

And without Hebrew make most learned quotations ; 

A work so full with various learning fraught, 

So nicely pondered, yet so strongly wrought 

As Nature's height and Art's last hand required : 

As much as man could compass, uninspired. 

Where we may see what errors have been made 

Both in the copier's and translator's trade : 

How Jewish, Popish interests have prevailed, 250 

And where Infallibility has failed. 

For some, who have his secret meaning guessed. 
Have found our author not too much a priest ; 
For fashion-sake he seems to have recourse 
To Pope and Councils and Tradition's force: 
But he that old traditions could subdue 
Could not but find the weakness of the new : 
If Scripture, though derived from heavenly birth, 
Has been but carelessly preserved on earth ; 
If God's own people, who of God before 260 

Knew what we know, and had been promised more 
In fuller terms of Heaven's assisting care, 
And who did neither time nor study spare 
To keep this Book untainted, unperplext. 
Let in gross errors to corrupt the text, 
Omitted paragraphs, embroiled the sense, 



334 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

With vain traditions stopped the gaping fence, 

Which every common hand pulled up with ease, 

What safety from such brushwood-helps as these? 

If written words from time are not secured, 270 

How can we think have oral sounds endured? 

Which thus transmitted, if one mouth has failed, 

Immortal lies on ages are entailed ; 

And that some such have been, is proved too plain ; 

If we consider Interest, Church, and Gain. 

Oh, but, says one. Tradition set aside, 
Where can we hope for an unerring guide ? 
For since the original Scripture has been lost 
All copies disagreeing, maimed the most. 
Or Christian faith can have no certain ground 280 

Or truth in Church tradition must be found. 

Such an omniscient Church we wish indeed : 
'Twere worth both Testaments, and cast in the Creed : 
But if this mother be a guide so sure 
As can all doubts resolve, all truth secure. 
Then her infallibility as well 
Where copies are corrupt or lame can tell ; 
Restore lost canon with as little pains, 
As truly explicate what still remains ; 

Which yet -no Council dare pretend to do, 290 

Unless, like Esdras, they could write it new ; 
Strange confidence, still to interpret true. 
Yet not be sure that all they have explained 
Is in the blest original contained. 
More safe and much more modest 'tis to say, 
God would not leave mankind without a way : 
And that the Scriptures, though not everywhere 
Free from corruption, or entire, or clear. 
Are uncorrupt, sufficient, clear, entire, 

In all things which our needful faith require. 300 

If others in the same glass better see, 
'Tis for themselves they look, but not for me ; 
For MV salvation must its doom receive. 
Not from what others, but what I. believe. 

Must all tradition then be set aside? 



RELIGIO LAICI. 335 

This to affirm were ignorance or pride. 
Are there not many points, some needful sure 
To saving faith, that Scripture leaves obscure, 
Which every sect will wrest a several way? 
For what one sect interprets, all sects may. 310 

We hold, and say we prove from Scripture plain, 
That Christ is God ; the bold Socinian 
From the Scripture urges he's but Man. 
Now what appeal can end the important suit? 
Both parts talk loudly, but the rule is mute. 
Shall I speak plain, and in a nation free 
Assume an honest layman's liberty? 
I think, according to my little skill, 
To my own mother Churcli submitting still. 
That many have been saved, and many may, 320 

Who never heard this question brought in play. 
The unlettered Christian, who believes in gross. 
Plods on to Heaven and ne'er is at a loss ; 
For the strait gate would be made straiter yet, 
Were none admitted there but men of wit. 
The few by Nature formed, with learning fraught. 
Born to instruct, as others to be taught, 
Must study well the sacred page : and see 
Wliich doctrine, this or that, does best agree 
With the whole tenour of the work divine, iy> 

And plainliest points to Heaven's revealed design ; 
Which exposition flows from genuine sense. 
And which is forced by wit and eloquence. 
Not that Tradition's parts are useless here. 
When general, old, disinteressed, and clear: 
That ancient fathers thus expound the page 
Gives truth the reverend majesty of age. 
Confirms its force by biding every test. 
For best authorities, next rules, are best ; 

And still the nearer to the spring we go, 34° 

More limpid, more unsoiled, the waters flow. 
Thus, first traditions were a proof alone, 
Could we be certain such they were, so known : 
But since some flaws in long descent may be. 



336 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

They make not truth but probabihty. 

Even Arius and Pelagius durst provoke 

To what the centuries preceding spoke. 

Such difference is there in an oft-told tale, 

But truth by its own sinews will prevail. 

Tradition written, therefore, more commends 35° 

Authority than what from voice descends : 

And this, as perfect as its kind can be. 

Rolls down to us the sacred history : 

Which, from the Universal Church received. 

Is tried, and after for its self believed. 

The partial Papists would infer from hence, 
■ Their Church in last resort should judge the sense. 
But first they would assume with wondrous art 
Themselves to be the whole, who are but part 
Of that vast frame, the Church ; yet grant they were 360 

The banders down, can they from thence infer 
A right to interpret? or would they alone 
Who brought the present claim it for their own? 
The Book's a common largess to mankind. 
Not more for them than every man designed ; 
The welcome news is in the letter found ; 
The carrier's not commissioned to expound. 
It speaks its self, and what it does contain 
In all things needful to be known is plain. 

In times o'ergrown with rust and ignorance 370 

A gainful trade their clergy did advance ; 
When want of learning kept the laymen low 
And none but priests were authorized to know ; 
When what small knowledge was in them did dwell 
And he a God who could but read or spell ; 
Then Mother Church did mightily prevail ; 
She parcelled out the Bible by retail, 
But still expounded what she sold or gave, 
To keep it in her power to damn and save. 
Scripture was scarce, and as the market went, 3^° 

Poor laymen took salvation on content. 
As needy men take money, good or bad ; 
God's word they had not, but the priest's they had. 



RELIGIO LAIC I. 337 

Yet, whate'er false conve3'ances they made, 

The lawyer still was certain to be paid. 

In those dark times they learned their knack so well. 

That by long use they grew infallible. 

At last, a knowing age began to inquire 

If they the Book or that did them inspire ; 

And making narrower search they found, though late, 39° 

That what they thought the priest's was their estate. 

Taught by the will produced, the written word. 

How long they had been cheated on record. 

Then every man, who saw the title fair, 

Claimed a child's part and put in for a share. 

Consulted soberly his private good. 

And saved himself as cheap as e'er he could. 

'Tis true, my friend (and far be flattery hence), 
This good had full as bad a consequence ; 
The Book thus put in every vulgar hand, 4°° 

Which each presumed he best could understand, 
The common rule was made the common, prey. 
And at the mercy of the rabble lay. 
The tender page with horny fists was galled. 
And he was gifted most that loudest bawled ; 
The spirit gave the doctoral degree, 
And every member of a Company 
Was of his trade and of the Bible free. 
Plain truths enough for needful use they found. 
But men would still be itching to expound ; 41° 

Each was ambitious of the obscurest place. 
No measure ta'en from Knowledge, all from Grace. 
Study and pains were now no more their care. 
Texts were explained by fasting and by prayer: 
This was the fruit the private spirit brought, 
Occasioned by great zeal and little thought. 
While crowds unlearned, with rude devotion warm, 
About the sacred viands buzz and swarm ; 
The fly-blown text creates a crawling brood 
And turns to maggots what was meant for food. 420 

A thousand daily sects rise up and die, 
A thousand more the perished race supply : 



338 EXGLISFI LITERATURE. 

So all we make of Heaven's discovered will 
Is not to have it or to use it ill. 
The danger's much the same, on several shelves 
If others wreck us or w^e wreck ourselves. 

What then remains but, waving each extreme. 
The tides of ignorance and pride to stem .^ 
Neither so rich a treasure to forego 

Nor proudly seek beyond our power to know? 43° 

Faith is not built on disquisitions vain ; 
The things we must believe are few and plain : 
But since men will believe more than they need • 
And every man will make himself a creed, 
In doubtful questions 'tis the safest way 
To learn what unsuspected ancients say ; 
For "tis not likely w-e should higher soar 
In search of Heaven than all the Church before ; 
Nor can we be deceived, unless we see 

The Scripture and the Fathers disagree. 44° 

If after all they stand suspected still, 
(For no man's faith depends upon his will.) 
'Tis some relief, that points not clearly known 
Without much hazard may be let alone ; 
And after hearing what our Church can say, 
If still ourl-.eason runs another way. 
That private reason 'tis more just to curb 
Than by disputes the public peace disturb. 
For points obscure are of small use to learn : 
But common quiet is mankind's concern. 450 

Thus have I made my own opinions clear. 
Yet neither praise expect nor censure fear; 
And this unpolished rugged verse I chose 
As iittest for discourse and nearest prose ; 
For while from sacred truth I do not swerve. 
Tom Sternhold's or Tom Shadwell's rhymes will serve. 



NOTES TO RELIGIO LAIC I. 339 



NOTES TO RELIGIO LAICI. 

In the preface Dryden makes an elaborate apology. " A poem with so 
bold a title," he says, " and a name prefixed from which the handling of so 
serious a subject would not be expected, may reasonably oblige the author to 
say somewhat in defence both of himself and of his undertaking. In the first 
place, if it be objected to me that, being a layman, I ought not to have con- 
cerned myself with speculations which belong to the profession of divinity, I 
could answer that perhaps laymen, with equal advantages of parts and knowl- 
edge, are not the most incompetent judges of sacred things ; but in the due 
sense of my own weakness and want of learning, I plead not this ; I pretend 
not to make myself a judge of faith in others, Init only to make a confession 
of my own. I lay no unhallowed hand upon the Ark, but wait on it with the 
reverence that becomes me at a distance. In the next place, I will ingenu- 
ously confess that the helps I have used in this small treatise were many of 
them taken from the works of our own reverend divines of the Church of 
England; so that the weapons with which I combat irreligion are already 
consecrated, though I suppose they may be taken down as lawfully as the 
sword of Goliath was by David, when they are to be employed for the common 
cause against the enemies of piety. I intend not by this to entitle them to 
any of my errors, which yet I hope are only those of charity to mankind; and 
such as my own charity has caused me to commit, that of others may more 
easily excuse." 

Lines i-ii. In the preface Dryden says, among other things, of human 
reason: "That there is something above us, some principle of motion, our 
Reason can apprehend, though it cannot discover what it is by its own virtue. 
And, indeed, 'tis very improbable that we, who by the strength of our 
faculties cannot enter into the knowledge of any being, not so much as of 
our own, should be able to find out by them that supreme nature, which we 
cannot otherwise define than by saying it is infinite; as if infinite were defin- 
able, or infinity a subject for our narrow understanding. They who would 
prove religion by reason do but weaken the cause which they endeavor to 
support: 'tis to take away the pillars from our faith, and to prop it only with 
a twig; 'tis to design a tower like that of Babel, which, if it were possible 
(as it is not) to reach heaven, would come to nothing by the confusion of the 



340 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

workmen. For every man is building a several way; impotently conceited 
of his own model and his own materials : reason is always striving, and always 
at a loss; and of necessity it must so come to pass, while 'tis exercised about 
that which is not its proper object. Let us be content at last to know God 
by his own methods; at least, so much of him as he is pleased to reveal to us 
in the sacred Scriptures : to apprehend them to be the word of God is all our 
reason has to do; for all beyond it is the work of faith, which is the seal of 
Heaven impressed upon our human understanding." 

12-24. These refer to the speculations of several Greek philosophers. 
In lines 16, 17, we have the theory of Anaxagoras, who was born about 500 
B.C. He advanced "the idea of a world-forming intelligence {^rious), abso- 
lutely separated from all matter and working with design." — 18-19. The 
theory of Democritus, who was born about 470 B.C. He taught that atoms 
are the ultimate material of all things. These atoms are in motion, and by 
their contact and various combinations they form what we call nature or the 
world. — 20 refers to the theory of Parmenides, who was born about 520 B.C. 
His fundamental position is this: '■'■All is, iioji-entity is not.'''' Of this 
universal being he sa5^s : — 

" Whole and self-generate, unchangeable, illimitable, 
Never was nor yet shall be its birth. All is already 
One from eternity." 

21. The Stagirite is Aristotle, one of the greatest of Greek philosophers, 
and tutor of Alexander the Great. He was born 384 B.C., at Stagira, a town 
in Macedonia; whencTe the name applied to him in the text. 

22. Epicurus was a Greek philosopher, who was born in the island of 
Tamos, 341 B.C. He was a materialist, believing in the existence of matter 
only. He founded the school of philosophy called the Epicurean. 

25-41. These lines contain the theories of various philosophers concern- 
ing the highest good. — 29. This refers to Aristippus, who was born in Gyrene, 
Africa, about 424 B.C. He is the founder of the Cyrenaic School of Philos- 
ophy. "His maxim seems to have been," says Haven in his "History of 
Philosophy," " ' Be content with such things as you have, and by no means 
fret thyself on any account.'" — 31. This refers to Antisthenes and his 
pupil Diogenes, the chief representatives of the cynic school of philosophy. 
With Antisthenes virtue is the supreme good. What is this virtue? Stern, 
determined resistance to all indulgence and pleasure — in a contempt of 
riches, honors, and even learning. — 33. Epicurus taught that pleasure is the 
highest good. His own life was temperate, simple, and pure. But his 
followers perverted his ethical principle, and made it an excuse for every 
sort of sensual indulgence. 



NOTES TO RELIGIO LAIC/. 34 1 

42-61. These lines contain the system of Deism at its best. Consult the 
" General Survey " at the beginning of the chapter. In reference to the 
principles of Deism, Dryden maintains that they are not the result of unaided 
human reason, as is commonly believed; but that they have been derived 
through tradition from the revealed religion of Noah. He says : "I have 
assumed in my poem . . . that Deism, or the principles of natural worship, 
are only the faint remnants or dying flames of revealed religion in the pos- 
terity of Noah: and that our modern philosophers, nay, and some of our 
philosophizing divines, have too much exalted the faculties of our souls when 
they have maintained that by their force mankind has been able to find out 
that there is one supreme agent or intellectual being which we call God ; that 
praise and prayer are his due worship; and the rest of those deducements, 
which I am confident are the remote effects of revelation, and unnattainable 
by our discourse, I mean as simply considered, and without the benefit of 
divine illumination. So that we have not lifted up ourselves to God by the 
weak pinions of our reason, but he has been pleased to descend to us; and 
what Socrates said of him, what Plato writ, and the rest of the heathen phi- 
losophers of several nations, is all no more than the twilight of revelation, after 
the sun of it was set in the race of Noah." — 43. Etireka was accented by 
Dryden, according to the Greek accentuation, on the first syllable. — 56. 
Triumphs was accented by Dryden on the last syllable. 

62. Here begins the reply to the Deist. Dryden maintains that the 
Deistic principles just enumerated sprang in reality, not from reason, but from 
revelation, lines 62-71. This must be true, he argues, because these princi- 
ples are so far superior to those of the wisest of ancient philosophers, lines 
72-92. — 75 refers to Socrates, the celebrated Greek philosopher, who was 
born at Athens in the year 469 B.C. — 77. Plutarch, a Boeotian by birth, 
lived in the first century of our era. He is one of the most felicitous biog- 
raphers that ever lived. His "Lives" are well known, but he wrote ex- 
tensively also on moral subjects. — Seneca was a celebrated Roman writer on 
moral subjects. He was condemned to death by Nero in 65 a.d. — Cicero, 
the greatest orator of Rome, was born 106 B.C. He was slain by the sol- 
diers of Antony, against whom he had delivered a series of celebrated philippics, 
in 43 B.C. 

93-98. Dryden objects, further, that the Deist's system is guilty of the 
monstrous presumption of dictating the terms of peace with God. But, he 
argues in lines 99-110, if there be a God who takes cognizance of our sins, 
we should accept his terms of reconciliation. 

111-I25. Penitence, the Deist's remedy, is obviously not a sufficient 
atonement for sin. We have sinned against Omnipotence; and, — 

" Some price that bears proportion must be paid." 



342 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Having thus shown the weakness of the Deistic system, and the necessity of a 
revelation, the poet finds it in the Scriptures. 

126-145. Proofs of the divine origin of the Scriptures follow: it answers 
the great ends of life; it possesses high antiquity; its authors, though of dif- 
ferent ages and countries, agree in doctrine. — 146-151. Its historical narra- 
tives are proved by heathen testimony, and its doctrine is confirmed by mira- 
cles. — 152-167. Its style and its opposition to our inclinations show it to 
be of God. 

168-183 contain the Deist's objections to revealed religion. A religion 
that is restricted in extent and efficacy, he says, cannot come from a just 
God. 

184-21 1 contain the poet's reply. He asserts, first (Hnes 186-197), that 
the boundless wisdom of God may have made some provisions for those who 
have not received the gospel; and, second, that according to the teaching of 
Paul, Rom. ii. 14, 15, the Gentiles or heathen are a law unto themselves, 
and shall be judged according to the light they have. — 193. Soi's should 
be So)i, according to present usage, though in Dryden's day it was correct 
as written. — 211. Rubric-martyrs = devotees of ecclesiastical forms. 

212-223. This animadversion on the Egyptian bishop Athanasius (born 
at Alexandria 296 a.d.), Dryden was advised, as he tells us, by " a judicious 
and learned friend,'" to omit. For its retention he makes a long apology, 
which throws light on the passage. The introduction to the Creed of Athana- 
sius is as follows: " Whosoever will be saved, before all things it is necessary 
that he hold the Catholic faith. Which faith except every one do keep whole 
and undefiled, without doubt he shall perish everlastingly." Dryden says: 
"And now for what concerns the holy bishop Athanasius, the Preface of 
whose Creed seems inconsistent with my opinion, which is, that heathens 
may possibly be saved: in the first place, I desire it may be considered that 
it is the Preface only, not the Creed itself, which, till I am better informed, 
is of too hard a digestion for my charity. It is not that I am ignorant how 
many several texts of Scripture seemingly support that cause; but neither am 
I ignorant how all those texts may receive a kinder and more mollified inter- 
pretation. Every man who is read in church history knows that Belief was 
drawn up after a long contestation with Arius. concerning the divinity of our 
blessed Saviour and his being one substance with the Father: and that, thus 
compiled, it was sent abroad among the Christian churches, as a kind of 
test, which whosoever took was looked on as an orthodox l)eliever. It is 
manifest from hence, that the heathen part i^f the empire was not concerned 
in it : for its business was not to distinguish l>etwixt Pagans and Christians, 
but lietwixt heretics and true believers. This, well considered, takes off the 
heavy weight of censure, which I would willingly avoid from so venerable a 



NOTES TO RELIGIO LAICI. 343 

man ; for if this proposition, ' whosoever will be saved,' be restrained only to 
those to whom it was intended, and for whom it was composed, I mean the 
Christians, then the anathema reaches not the heathens, who had never heard 
of Christ and were nothing interessed in that dispute. After all, I am far 
from blaming even that prefatory addition to the Creed, and as far from cavil- 
ling at the continuation of it in the Liturgy of the Church, where on the days 
appointed 'tis publicly read: for I suppose there is the same reason for it now 
in opposition to the Socinians as there was then against the Arians; the one 
being a heresy, which seems to have been refined out of the other ; and with 
how much more plausibility of reason it combats our religion, with so much 
more caution to be avoided: and therefore the prudence of our Church is to 
be commended, which has interposed her authority for the recommendation of 
this Creed." — 220. Arius, the founder of Arianism, was born in Libya about 
the middle of the third century. He taught, among other things, that the 
Son of God was a created being, that he was not eternal, and that he was not 
of the same substance as the Father. His doctrines were condemned at the 
Council of Nice in the year 325, when the Nicene Creed was prepared. 

224-251. Personal remarks addressed Mr. Henry Dickinson, of whom 
nothing is known farther than that he translated "The Critical History of the 
Old Testament " by Richard Simon, a priest of the Oratory in Paris, and a 
good Oriental scholar. Dryden says in the " Preface: " " It remains that I 
acquaint the reader, that the verses were written for an ingenious young gen- 
tleman, my friend, upon his translation of ' The Critical Plistory of the Old 
Testament,' composed by the learned Father Simon: the verses therefore 
are addressed to the translator of that work, and the style of them is, what 
it ought to be, epistolary." — 241. Junius and Tremellius were two Cal- 
vinistic divines, whose translation of the Scriptures Simon criticised. 

252-275. This is an argument against tradition as a source of religious 
doctrine. Dryden holds the Protestant doctrine that the Scripture is the only 
rule of faith and practice in religion. The Roman Catholic says that "not 
the Bible alone, but the Bible and Tradition, both infallibly interpreted by the 
Church, are the right Rule of Faith. (Deharbe's " Catechism of the Catholic 
Religion.") If the written Scriptures, the poet argues, have not escaped 
"gross errors," "how can we think oral sounds have endured? " 

276-281. The Romanist argues for the necessity of an interpreting 
Church, without which " Christian faith can have no certain ground." 

282-304. The poet replies that the claim of an infallibly interpreting 
Church is absurd, because, while it undertakes to interpret, it is impotent to 
determine the genuineness of the text. He affirms the Protestant doctrine 
that, in the language of the Thirty-nine Articles, " Holy Scripture containeth 
all things necessary to salvation." In reference to this whole subject. Dry- 



344 EAGLISH LITERATURE. 

den says : " By asserting the Scripture to be the canon of our faith, I have 
unavoidably created to myself two sorts of enemies: the Papists, indeed, 
more directly, because they have kept the Scripture from us what they could, 
and have reserved to themselves a right of interpreting what they have deliv- 
ered under the pretence of infallibility: and the Fanatics more collaterally, 
because they have assumed what amounts to an infallibility in the private 
spirit, and have detorted those texts of Scripture which are not necessary to 
salvation to the damnable uses of sedition, disturbance, and destruction of 
the civil government." 

305-315. To this doctrine of the sufficiency of the Scripture, it is ob- 
jected that certainly tradition should not be utterly set aside: for in that 
case, each sect will interpret for itself; and thus, as in the case of the 
Socinian, error will be disseminated. — 312. Soiinian. See Webster. 

316-355. In reply, the poet says that a complete system of doctrinal 
theol<:^y is not necessary to salvation; that single texts are to be explained 
in the light of the whole Word of God; and that tradition, while not a source 
of doctrine, is helpful in determining the true sense of the Scriptures. — 346. 
Pelagius was a monk who lived in Britain in the fourth century, and 
denied the received doctrines in respect to original sin, free will, grace, and 
the merit of good works. 

356, 35 7. A second objection of the Papist, namely, that his Church, 
having been the medium of transmitting both Scripture and ancient tradition, 
** should in the last resort judge the sense." 

358-397. The poet replies that, apart from a^uming ** to be the whole, 
who are but part," "the carrier's not commissioned to expound; " and that, 
as a matter of fact, the Bible is a gift to mankind. In lines 370-397 he 
further reminds the Papist of the trade the priests made of the Word of God, 
when they, on account of their learning and the ignorance of the laity, were 
the recc^nized interpreters of Holy Writ. 

398-426. The poet points out what he conceives to be abuses to which 
the Scriptures were subject in the hands of the Puritans. 

427-450. Some wise rules to be observed in dealing with the Scriptures. 

451-456. Conclusioii. Stemhold and ShadweB were contemporary with 
Dryden. They are satirized again in *' Absalom and Achitophel," and 
Dryden's " ]VIac Flecknoe " is a severe satire exclusively devoted to Shadwell. 



THE OUEEN ANNE PERIOD. 



REPRESENTATIVE WRITERS. 

ADDISON AND POPE. 

OTHER PROMINENT WRITERS. 

Poets. — Thomson, Young, Gay. 

Novelists. — Defoe, Richardson, Fielding. 

Essayists and Satirists. — Steele, Swift. 



V. 

THE QUEEN ANNE PERIOD. 

1700-1745- 

General Survey. — It is not easy to characterize this 
period. Various names have been applied to it. In view 
of the elegant form and wide influence of literature, it has 
been called the Augustan age. It has been thought to re- 
semble the flourishing period of Roman literature under 
Augustus, when Ovid, Horace, Cicero, and Virgil pro- 
duced their immortal works. 

If we consider the attention given to literary expres- 
sion and the perfection of style exhibited by writers of 
this time, we may properly designate it as the first criti- 
cal period of our literature. Prior to the beginning of the 
eighteenth century, our literature was creative rather than 
critical. The chief aim of Pope, the most representative 
writer of this age, was to attain correctness of form and 
style, which he believed had not been sufficiently regarded 
by previous writers. 

Instead of adopting, however, either of the names indi- 
cated, it has seemed better to connect literature with the 
social, political, and religious conditions by which it was 
largely moulded, and to name the period under considera- 
tion after its representative sovereign, Queen Anne, She 
ascended the throne in 1702, and reigned till 171 4; but 

347 



348 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

inasmuch as the same general mfluences continued opera- 
tive for a longer time, the period is extended to the death 
of Swift in 1745. It thus includes the reign of George I., 
and a part of the reign of George 11. 

In this period the political principles of the Revolution 
became predominant. Absolutism gave place to consti- 
tutional government. The Tories and the Wliigs became 
well-marked parties, and in turn succeeded to the govern- 
ment. Corrupt political methods were frequently resorted 
to in order to gain party ascendency. Walpole boasted 
that every man had his price. An unselfish patriotism 
was too often looked on as youthful enthusiasm, which the 
coolness of age would cure. Leading statesmen led impure 
and dissipated lives. 

Yet in spite of these conditions, England attained to 
great influence in Continental affairs. Victory attended 
her arms on the Continent under the leadership of Marl- 
borough. The battles of Blenheim, Ramillies, Oudenarde, 
and Malplaquet brought the power of Louis XIV. to the 
verge of destruction. The balance of power w^as restored 
to Europe. The union of England and Scotland was 
effected in 1707, and English sovereigns henceforth 
reigned over the kingdom of Great Britain. The power 
of English thought, as well as of English arms, was felt 
abroad. Buffon found inspiration in its science ; Montes- 
quieu studied the institutions of England with great care ; 
and Rousseau borrowed many of his thoughts from Locke. 
The English people once more became conscious of their 
strength, and felt the uplifting power of great hopes and 
splendid purposes. 

In several particulars the state of society does not 
present a pleasing picture. Education was confined to a 



I 



THE QUEEN ANNE PERIOD. 349 

comparatively limited circle. Addison complained that 
there were families in which not a single person could 
spell, "unless it be by chance the butler or one of the 
footmen." Cock-fighting was the favorite sport of school- 
boys, and bull-baiting twice a week delighted the populace 
of London. The theatres were not yet fully redeemed 
from the licentiousness of the preceding period. Gam- 
bling was a common vice ; and, what appears strange to us, 
the women of the time showed a strong passion for this 
excitement. Speaking of Will's Coffee-house, the Tatler 
says : " This place is very much altered since Mr. Dryden 
frequented it. Where you used to see songs, epigrams, 
and satires in the hands of every one you met, you have 
now only a pack of cards." Fashionable hours became 
later ; and a considerable part of the night was frequently 
given to dissipation. Drunkenness increased with the 
introduction of gin. The police was not able to control 
the lawless classes, and in the cities mobs not infrequently 
vented their rage in conflagration and pillage. When Sir 
Roger de Coverley, as portrayed by Addison, went to the 
theatre, he armed his servants with cudgels for protection. 
Woman had not yet found her true sphere ; and, in 
wealthy or fashionable circles, her time was devoted chiefly 
to dress, frivolity, and scandal. In the " Rape of the 
Lock," Pope gives us a glimpse of conversation in court 
circles : — 

" In various talk th' instructive hours they pass'd, 
Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last; 
One speaks the glory of the British queen, 
And one describes a charming Indian screen; 
A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes; 
At every w^ord a reputation dies; 
Snuff, or the fan, supplies each pause of chat, 
With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that." 



350 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Belief in witchcraft had not entirely passed away. In 
1712a witch was condemned to death ; and her prosecu- 
tion was conducted, not by ignorant rustics, but by a 
learned author and an educated clergyman. It is in keep- 
ing with the belief of the time to find Sir Roger de 
Coverley puzzled over the character of Moll White, and 
piously advising her " to avoid all communication with the 
devil, and never to hurt any of her neighbor's cattle." 
Superstition was common, and people of every class had 
faith in omens. Religion was at a low ebb. Scepticism 
was extensively prevalent, especially among the higher 
classes, and many of the clergy thought more of the 
pleasures of the chase than of the care of souls. " Every 
one laughs," said Montesquieu, "if one talks of religion." 

But there is also a more favorable side to the social 
condition of England during this period — some influences 
that contain the promise of a brighter day. In spite of 
the low state of Christianity, earnest men, like Doddridge, 
Watts, and Willi'am Law, were not wanting to inculcate a 
a genuine piety. The rise of Methodism under John 
Wesley and George Whitefield exerted a salutary influ- 
ence upon the religious life of England. These great 
preachers, impressed by the realities of sin, redemption, 
and eternal life, urged these truths with surpassing elo- 
quence upon the multitudes that flocked to hear them. 
Before the death of John Wesley, his followers numbered 
a hundred thousand, and the Established Church was 
awakened to a new zeaL 

The great middle class of England came into greater 
prominence, and gradually formed a reading public. Lit- 
erature became independent of patronage. It did not pre- 
tend to deal with the great problems of human thought. 



THE QUEEN ANNE PERIOD. 351 

but as a rule confined itself to criticism, satire, wit, the 
minor morals, and the small proprieties of life. But 
through French and classic influences, these subjects were 
treated with a lightness of touch and elegance of form 
that have never been surpassed. 

The clubs became an important feature of social life 
in London. Coffee-houses multiplied, till in 1708 they 
reached the number of three thousand. They became 
centres for the diffusion of intelligence. Here the lead- 
ing political, literary, and social questions of the day were 
discussed. 

Periodical publications became an important factor in 
the intellectual life of England. In 17 14 no fewer than 
fourteen papers were published in London. The principal 
periodicals were the Tatler, Spectator, and Guardian, which 
were conducted in a manner not only to refine the taste, 
but also to improve the morals. Made up of brief, enter- 
taining, and often elegant essays, and treating of every 
subject from epic poems to female toilets, they came to be 
welcomed at the club-house and breakfast-table, and ex- 
erted a wide and salutary influence upon the thought and 
life of the country. 



352 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



JOSEPH ADDISON. 

There is no other writer in P^nglish literature of whom we 
think more kindly than of Joseph Addison. Macaulay has given 
very strong expression to the same sentiment. "After full in- 
quiry and impartial reflection," he says, " we have long been 
convinced, that he deserved as much love and esteem as can be 
justly claimed by any of our infirm and erring race." 

We read his writings with a refined and soothing pleasure. 
They possess a genial humor and unvarying cheerfulness that 
are contagious and delightful. There is no other writer who 
has greater power to dispel gloominess. As seen through his 
pages, the world appears wrapped in a mellow light. We learn 
to think more kindly of men, to smile at human foibles, to 
entertain ennobling sentiments, to trust in an over-ruling provi- 
dence. 

He does not indeed usually treat of the deeper interests of 
human life ; he is never profound ; he does not try to exhaust 
a subject — to write it to the dregs. His sphere is rather that 
of minor morals, social foibles, and small philosophy. But if 
he is not deep, he is not trifling ; and if he is not exhaustive, 
he is always interesting. He uses satire, but it is never cruel. 
It does not, like that of Swift, scatter desolation in its path. 
On the contrary, it is tempered with a large humanity, and like 
a gentle rain, dispenses blessings in its course. It leads, not 
to cynicism, but to tenderness. 

He enlisted wit on the side of virtue ; and by his inimitable 
humor, good sense, genial satire, and simple piety, he wrought 
a great social reform. "So effectually, indeed," says Macaulay, 
" did he retort on vice the mockery which had recently been 
directed against virtue, that, since his time, the open violation 



JOSEPH ADDISON. 353 

of decency has always been considered amongst us the sure 
mark of a fool." 

Joseph Addison was born in Wiltshire in 1672, his father, 
a man of some eminence, being dean of Lichfield. Though 
there is a tradition that he once took a leading part in bar- 
ring out his teacher, and on another occasion played truant, 
his youthful scholarship proves him to have been a diligent 
student. 

From the school at Lichfield he passed to Charter House. 
Here he made the friendship of Steele, which, as we shall see, 
was not without influence upon his subsequent career and fame. 

At the age of fifteen he entered Oxford with a scholarship 
far in advance of his years, attracted attention by his superior 
Latin verses, and was elected a scholar of Magdalen College, 
where he took his degree of Master of Arts in 1693. He was 
held in high regard for his ability and learning. His portrait 
now hangs in the college hall, and his favorite walk on the 
banks of the Cherwell is still pointed out. 

After writing a number of Latin poems, which secured the 
praise of the great French critic Boileau, he made his first 
attempt in English verse in some lines addressed to Dryden, at 
that time pre-eminent among men of letters. This maiden 
effort had the good fortune to please the great author, and 
led to an interchange of civilities. 

At this time Addison's mind seemed inclined to poetry ; 
and he published some lines to King William, a translation of 
Virgil's fourth Georgic, and " An Account of the Greatest 
English Poets," all of which have but little to commend them 
except correct versification. The last poem is remarkable for 
having a discriminating criticism of Spenser, whose works the 
author at that time had not read. " So little sometimes," 
comments Dr. Johnson, "is criticism the effect of judgment." 

Addison was a moderate Whig in politics, and by his poefns 
had conciliated the favor of Somers and Montague, afterwards 
Earl of Halifax. In conformity with the wishes of his father 
and his own inclinations, he contemplated taking orders in the 



354 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Anglican Church; but through the influence of Montague, who 
was unwilling to spare him to the church, he was led to pre- 
pare himself for the public service. 

He was granted a pension of three hundred pounds, and 
spent the next several years in travel on the Continent, visiting 
France, Italy, Switzerland, Germany, and Holland. He im- 
proved his opportunities in perfecting his knowledge of the 
French language, in visiting localities of historic interest, and in 
making the acquaintance of illustrious scholars and statesmen. 
His observations on the French people, as given in a letter 
to Montague, are worth reading : " Truly, by what I have yet 
seen, they are the happiest nation in the world. 'Tis not in the 
power of want or slavery to make them miserable. There is 
nothing to be met with in the country but mirth and poverty. 
Every one sings, laughs, and starves. Their conversation is 
generally agreeable ; for. if they have any wit or sense they are 
sure to show it. They never mend upon a second meeting, but 
use all the freedom and familiarity at first sight that a long in- 
timacy or abundance of wine can scarce draw from an English- 
man. Their women are perfect mistresses in this art of showing 
themselves to the best advantage. They are always gay and 
sprightly, and set* off the worst faces in Europe with the best 
airs." In general his remarks upon the French character are 
not complimentary. 

The immediate literary fruits of his travels were a poetical 
epistle to Lord Halifax, which ranks among his best verses, 
and " Remarks on Italy," in which his observations are made 
to illustrate the Roman poets. In his " Letter to Lord Hali- 
fax," he gives expression to his delight and enthusiasm in find- 
ing himself in the midst of scenes associated with his favorite 
authors : — 

" Poetic fields encompass me around, 
And still I seem to tread on classic ground; 
For here the Muse so oft her harp has strung, 
That not a mountain rears its head unsung; 
Renowned in verse each shady thicket grows, 
And every stream in heavenly numbers flows." 



JOSEPH ADDISOiV. 355 

Here should be mentioned also one of his best hymns. 
While sailing along the Italian coast, he encountered a fierce 
storm. The captain of the ship lost all hope, and confessed 
his sins to a Capuchin friar who happened to be on board. 
But the young English traveller solaced himself with the reflec- 
tions embodied in the famous hymn : — 

" When all thy mercies, O my God, 
My rising soul surveys, 
Transported with the view I'm lost 
In wonder, love, and praise." 

Towards the close of 1703 Addison returned to England, 
and was cordially received by his friends. He was enrolled 
at the Kit-Kat Club, and thus brought into contact with the 
chief lights of the Whig party. The way was soon opened 
to a public offtce. 

The battle of Blenheim was fought in 1704 ; and Godolphin, 
the Lord Treasurer, wished to have the great victory worthily 
celebrated in verse. He was referred by Halifax to Addison. 
The result was " The Campaign," which was received with 
extraordinary applause both by the minister and the public. 
Its chief merit is the rejection of extravagant fiction, according 
to which heroes are represented as mowing down whole squad- 
rons with their single arm, and a recognition of those qualities 
— energy, sagacity, and coolness in the hour of danger — 
which made Marlborough really a great commander. One pas- 
sage in the poem has become famous : — 

" 'Twas then great Marlbro's mighty soul was proved 
That, in the shock of charging hosts unmoved, 
Amidst confusion, horror, and despair, 
Examined all the dreadful scenes of war; 
In peaceful thought the field of death surveyed, 
To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid, 
Inspired repulsed battalions to engage, 
And taught the doubtful battle where to rage. 



356 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

So when an angel hy divine command 
With rising tempests shakes a guilty land, 
Such as of late o'er pale Britannia past, 
Calm and serene he drives the furious blast; 
And, pleased the Almighty's orders to perform, 
Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm." 

This simile of the angel the Tatlcr pronounced •" one of 
the noblest thoughts that ever entered into the heart of man." 

From this time on the career of Addison was a brilliant 
one. In 1704, in grateful recognition of his poem, he received 
the Excise Commissionership, made vacant by the death of the 
celebrated John Locke. In 1706 he became one of the Under- 
Secretaries of State ; and two years later he entered Parlia- 
ment, where, however, his natural timidity kept him from 
participating in the debates. In 1709 he was appointed Chief 
Secretary for Ireland ; and, while residing in that country, he 
entered upon that department of literature upon which his 
fame chiefly rests, and in which he stands without a rival. 

This was in connection with the Tailc)\ a periodical begun 
by Steele in 1709. Sir Richard Steele, Avho was born in Dub- 
lin in 167 1, had led a somewhat wayward life. He left Oxford 
without taking his 'degree, and enlisted in the Horse Guards — 
an imprudence that cost him an inheritance. He rose to the 
rank of captain, but was ga}^, reckless, and dissipated. His 
naturally tender heart was constantly overcome by his imperious 
appetites, and his life presents a series of alternate repentance 
and dissipation. 

In 1 701 he wrote the " Christian Hero " for the purpose of 
impressing the principles of virtue upon his own heart. It is 
filled with lofty sentiment, but remained without serious effect 
upon the author's irregular life. Then followed in annual suc- 
cession several moderate comedies. 

The literary ability evinced in his writings secured him the 
appointment of Gazetteer. This position gave him a monopoly 
of official news, and no doubt sugg-^sted the scheme of publish- 
ing a periodical. Accordingly he began the Tatlcr. Addison 



JOSEPH ADDISON. 357 

had not been consulted about the scheme, but promptly gave it 
his support. 

In a few weeks after its first issue he began a series of con- 
tributions. The result may be best expressed in Steele's own 
words. " I fared," he said, " like a distressed prince who calls in 
a powerful neighbor to his aid. I was undone by my auxiliary. 
When I had once called him in, I could not subsist without 
dependence on him." Steele's own contributions, however, 
were of a high order, inferior only to those of his illustrious co- 
adjutor. The Tatler was published three times a week, and, 
after reaching two hundred and seventy-one numbers, was dis- 
continued Jan. 2, 171 1. 

It was succeeded by the Spectator, which appeared six times 
a week. The first number was issued March i, 171 1 — two 
months after the discontinuance of the Tatler. It was consid- 
ered at the time a bold undertaking ; but the result more than 
justified the confidence of Steele and Addison, its promoters. 

It is made up of an incomparable series of short essays, 
which have all the interest of fiction and the value of philosophy. 
They are represented as the productions of an imaginary spec- 
tator of the world, a description of whom in the first paper we 
recognize as a caricature of Addison himself. " Thus I live in 
the world," it is said, " rather as a spectator of mankind, than 
as one of the species, by which means I have made myself a 
speculative statesman, soldier, merchant, and artisan, without 
ever meddling with any practical part in life. I am very well 
versed in the theory of a husband or a father, and can discern 
the errors in the economy, business, and diversions of others, 
better than those who are engaged in them ; as standers-by dis- 
cover blots, which are apt to escape those who are in the game. 
I never espoused any party with violence, and am resolved to 
observe an exact neutrality between the Whigs and Tories, un- 
less I shall be forced to declare myself by the hostilities of 
either side. In short, I have acted in all the parts of my life 
as a looker-on, which is the character I intend to preserve in 
this paper." 



35^ ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

The plan, it must be perceived, is excellent. Addison 
wrote about three-sevenths of the six hundred and thirty-five 
numbers. He poured into them all the wealth of his learning, 
observation, and genius. The variety is almost endless, but 
the purpose is always moral. He is a great teacher without 
being pedantic. His wholesome lessons are so seasoned with 
playful humor, gentle satire, and honest amiability, that they 
encounter no resistance. Vice becomes ridiculous, and virtue 
admirable. And his style is so easy, graceful, perspicuous, 
elegant, that it must remain a model for all time. " Give days 
and nights, sir," said the blunt Dr. Johnson, "to the study of 
Addison, if you mean to be a good writer, or what is more 
worth, an honest man." 

The Spectator created a large constituency, and every num- 
ber was eagerly waited for. It found a welcome in the coffee- 
houses and at many a breakfast-table. Its daily circulation was 
more than three thousand ; and when the essays were published 
in book form, ten thousand copies of each volume were im- 
mediately called for, and successive editions were necessary to 
supply the popular demand. 

In 1713 appeajed Addison's tragedy of " Cato," the first 
four acts of which had been written years before in Italy. It 
was only at the urgent solicitation of his friends that he con- 
sented to its representation on the stage. Its success was 
astonishing. For a month it was played before crowded 
houses. Whigs and Tories vied with each other in its praise, 
applying its incidents and sentiments to current politics. " The 
Whigs applauded every line in which liberty was mentioned, 
as a satire on the Tories ; and the Tories echoed every clap, 
to show that the satire was unfelt." It was translated into 
Italian and acted at Florence. 

On its publication, however, its popularity began to abate. 
It was savagely attacked by Dennis. Addison was too amiable 
to write a reply. Pope, however, assailed the furious critic, but 
left the objections to the play in full force. It is probable that 
he was more desirous of scourging Dennis than of vindicating 



JOSEPH ADDISON. 359 

Addison. At all events, Addison did not approve of the bitter- 
ness of Pope's reply, disclaimed all responsibility for it, and 
caused Dennis to be informed that whenever he thought lit to 
answer, he would do it in the manner of a gentleman. Of 
course Pope was mortified ; and it is to this transaction that 
his dislike of Addison is probably to be traced. 

'• Cato " conforms to the classic writers, and abounds in 
noble sentiment. But it is lacking in high poetic or dramatic 
interest. A scene in the fifth act, which represents Cato alone, 
sitting in a thoughtful posture with Plato's " Immortality of 
the Soul " in his hand, and a drawn sword on the table by him, 
is well known. 

" It must be so — Plato, thou reason'st well ! — 
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, 
This longing after immortality? 
Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, 
Of falling into nought? why shrinks the soul 
Back on herself, and startles at destruction? 
'Tis the divinity that stirs within us; . 
'Tis heaven itself, that points out an hereafter. 
And intimates eternity to man. 
Eternity ! thou pleasing, dreadful thought ! 
Through what variety of untried being. 
Through what new scenes and changes must we pass? 
The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me; 
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. 
Here will I hold. If there's a power above us, 
(And that there is all nature cries aloud 
Through all her works,) he must delight in virtue ; 
And that which he delights in, must be happy. 
But when ! or where ! — This world was made for Caesar. 
I'm weary of conjectures. — This must end them. 

\_Laying his hand on his sword. '\ 
Thus am I doubly armed; my death and life, 
My bane and antidote are both before me : 
This in a moment brings me to an end; 
But this informs me I shall never die. 
The soul, secured in her existence, smiles 
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. 



360 EXGLISH LITERATURE. 

The stars shall fade away, the sun himself 
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years; 
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth. 
Unhurt amidst the wars of elements. 
The wrecks of matter, and the crush of worlds." 

In 1 7 16. after a long courtship. Addison married Lady War- 
wick. She was a woman of much beauty, but also of proud 
and imperious temper. The marriage, it seems, did not add to 
his happiness. According to Dr. Johnson, the lady married 
him "on terms much like those on which a Turkish princess 
is espoused, to whom the Sultan is reported to pronounce, 
' Daughter. I give thee this man for thy slave." '" His domestic 
infelicity caused him to seek more frequently the pleasures of 
the coltee-house. His fondness for wine likewise increased. 

The year after his mamage he reached the summit of his 
political career as Secretary of State, But his health soon 
failed : and after holding oince for eleven months, he resigned 
on a prnsion of fifteen hundred pounds. His complaint ended 
in dropsy. A shadow was cast over the last years of his life 
by a quarrel with Steele arising from a diiference of political 
views. He died June 17, 17 19. His last moments were per- 
fectly serene. To his son-in-law he said. '"See how a Christian 
can die."' His piety was sincere and deep. All nature spoke 
to him of God: and the Psalmist's declaration that "the heavens 
declare the glory of God," he wrought into a magnificent 
h}-mn : — 

" The spacious firmament on high, 
With all the blue ethereal sky, 
And spangled heavens, a shining frame. 
Their great Original proclaim." 

Speaking of this hymn. Thackeray says: "It seems to me 
those verses shine like the stars. They shine out of a great 
deep calm. When he turns to Heaven, a Sabbath comes over 
that man's mir.d : and his face lights up from it with a glory of 

thanks and prayer. His sense of religion stirs through his 



JOSEPH ADDISON. 36 1 

whole being. In the fields, in the town ; looking at the birds in 
the trees; at the children in the streets; in the morning or in 
the moonlight ; over his books in his own room ; in a happy party 
at a country merry-making or a town assembly : good-will and 
peace to God's creatures, and love and- awe of Him who made 
them, fill his pure heart and shine from his kind face. If 
Swift's life was the most wretched, I think Addison's was one 
of the most enviable. A life prosperous and beautiful — a calm 
death — an immense fame and affection afterwards for his 
happy and spotless name." 



362 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



SIR ROGER DE COVER LEY. 

I. SIR ROGER'S COUNTRY RESIDENCE. 

Having often received an invitation from my friend Sir Roger 
de Coverley to pass away a month with him in the country, I last 
week accompanied him thither, and am settled with him for some 
time at his country-house, where I intend to form several of my en- 
suing speculations. Sir Roger, who is very w^ell acquainted with my 
humor, ^ lets me rise and go to bed when I please, dine at his own 
table or in my chamber as I think fit, sit still and say nothing without 
bidding me be merry. When the gentlemen of the county come to 
see him, he only shows me at a distance. As I have been walking 
in his fields, I have observed them stealing a sight of me over an 
hedge,^ and have heard the knight desiring them not to let me see 
them, for that I hated to be stared at. 

I am the more at ease in Sir Roger's family, because it consists 
of sober and staid persons : for as the knight ^ is the best master in 
the world, he seldom changes his ser\-ants ; and as he is beloved by 
all about him, his servants never care for leaving him : by this means 
his domestics are all in 3^ears, and grown old with their master. You 
would take his valet-de-cha)nbre "* for his brother, his butler is grav- 
headed, his groom is one of the gravest men that I have ever seen, 
and his coachman has the looks of a privy-councillor. ^ You see the 
goodness of the master even in the old house-dog, and in a gray 
pad ^ that is kept in the stable with great care and tenderness out 
of regard to his past services, though he has been useless for several 
years. 

I could not but observe with a great deal of pleasure the joy that 
appeared in the countenances of these ancient domestics, upon my 
friend's arrival at his county-seat. Some of them could not refrain 
from tears at the sight of their old master: ever}- one of them 
pressed forward to do something for him. and seemed discouraged if 



S/R ROGER DE COVE RLE Y. 363 

they were not employed. At the same time, the good old knight, 
with a mixture of the father and master of the family, tempered ^ the 
inquiries after his own affairs with several kind questions relating to 
themselves. This humanity ^ and good nature engages everybody to 
him, so that when he is pleasant upon any of them, all his family are 
in good humor, and none so much as the person whom he diverts 
himself with ; on the contrary, if he coughs, or betrays any infirmity 
of old age, it is easy for a stander-by to observe a secret concern in 
the looks of all his servants. 

My worthy friend has put me under the particular care of his 
butler, who is a very prudent man, and, as well as the rest of 
his fellow-servants, wonderfully desirous of pleasing me, because 
they have often heard their master talk of me as of his particular 
friend. 

My chief companion, when Sir Roger is diverting himself in the 
woods or the fields, is a very venerable man, who is ever with Sir 
Roger, and has lived at his house in the nature ^ of a chaplain above 
thirty years. This gentleman is a person of good sense and some 
learning, of a very regular life and obliging conversation. He heart- 
ily loves Sir Roger, and knows that he is very much in the old 
knight's esteem, so that he lives in the family rather as a relation 
than a dependant. 

I have observed in several of my papers, that my friend Sir 
Roger, amidst all his good qualities, is something of an humorist ; 
and that his virtues, as well as imperfections, are, as it were, tinged '° 
by a certain extravagance, which makes them particularly his, and 
distinguishes them from those of other men. This cast of mind, as 
it is generally very innocent in itself, so it renders his conversation 
highly agreeable and more delightful than the same degree of sense 
and virtue would appear in their common and ordinary colors. As I 
was walking with him. last night, he asked me how I liked the good 
man whom I have just now mentioned ; and without staying for my 
answer, told me that he was afraid of being insulted " with Latin and 
Greek at his own table ; for which reason he desired a particular 
friend of his at the university to find him out a clergyman rather of 
plain sense than much learning, of a good aspect, a clear voice, a 
sociable temper, and, if possible, a man that understood a little of 
backgammon.'^ " My friend," says Sir Roger, '-found me out this 



364 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

gentleman, who, besides the endowments required of him, is, they 
tell me, a good scholar, though he does not show it. I have given 
him the parsonage ^^ of the parish ; and because I know his value, 
have settled upon him a good annuity for life. If he outlives me, 
he shall find that he was higher in my esteem than perhaps he thinks 
he is. He has now been with me thirty years; and though he does 
not know I have taken notice of it, has never in all that time asked 
anything of me for himself, though he is every day soliciting me for 
something in behalf of one or other of my tenants his parishioners. 
There has not been a lawsuit in the parish since he has lived among 
them ; if any dispute arises, they apply themselves to him for the 
decision ; if they do not acquiesce in his judgment, which I think 
never happened above once or twice at most, they appeal to me. At 
his first settling with me, I made him a present of all the good ser- 
mons which have been printed in English, and only begged of him 
that every Sunday he would pronounce one of them in the pulpit. 
Accordingly, he has digested '"^ them into such a series that they fol- 
low one another naturally, and make a continued system of practical 
divinity." '^ 

As Sir Roger was going on with his story, the gentleman we were 
talking of came up to us ; and upon the knight's asking him who 
preached to-morrow (for it was Saturday night), told us, the Bishop 
of St. Asaph in the morning, and Dr. South in the afternoon. He 
then showed us his list of preachers for the whole year, where I saw 
with a great deal of pleasure Archbishop Tillotson, Bishop Saunder- 
son. Dr. Barrow, Dr. Calamy,^^ with several living authors, who have 
published discourses of practical divinity. I no sooner saw this ven- 
erable man in the pulpit, but I very much approved of my friend's 
insisting upon the qualifications of a good aspect and a clear voice ; 
for I was so charmed with the gracefulness of his figure and deliv- 
ery, as well as with the discourses he pronounced, that I think I never 
passed any time more to my satisfaction. A sermon repeated after 
this manner is like the composition of a poet in the mouth of a 
graceful actor. 

I could heartily wish that more of our country clergy would fol- 
low this example, and instead of wasting their spirits in laborious 
compositions of their own, would endeavor after a handsome elocu- 
tion, and all those other talents that are proper to enforce what has 



I 



SIR ROGER BE COVERLEY. 365 

been penned by greater masters. This would not only be more easy 
to themselves, but more edifying to the people. 



II. A SUNDAY AT SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY'S. 

I AM always very v/^U pleased with a country Sunday, and think, 
if keeping holy the seventh day were only a human institution, it 
would be the best method that could have been thought of for the 
polishing and civilizing of mankind. It is certain the country people 
would soon degenerate into a kind of savages and barbarians, were 
there not such frequent returns at a stated time, in which the whole 
village meet together with their best faces, and in their cleanliest 
habits,^ to converse with one another upon different subjects, hear 
their duties explained to them, and join together in adoration of the 
Supreme Being. Sunday clears away the rust of the whole week, 
not only as it refreshes in their minds the notions of religion, but as 
it puts both the sexes upon appearing in their most agreeable forms, 
and exerting all such qualities as are apt to give them a figure in the 
eye of the village. A country fellow distinguishes himself as much 
in the churchyard as a citizen does upon the 'Change,^ the whole 
parish politics being generally discussed in that place either after 
sermon or before the bell rings. 

My friend Sir Roger being a good churchman,^ has beautified 
the inside of his church with several texts of his own choosing. He 
has likewise given a handsome pulpit-cloth, and railed in the com- 
munion table at his own expense. He has often told me, that at his 
coming to his estate he found his parishioners very irregular ; and 
that in order to make them kneel and join in the responses, he gave 
every one of them a hassock ^ and a Common Prayer-Book, and at 
the same time employed an itinerant singing-master, who goes about 
the country for that purpose, to instruct them rightly in the tunes of 
the psalms; upon which they now very much value themselves, and, 
indeed, outdo most of the country churches that I have ever heard. 

As Sir Roger is landlord to the whole congregation, he keeps 
them in very good order, and will suffer nobody to sleep in it be- 
sides himself ; for if by chance he has been surprised into a short 
nap at sermon, upon recovering out of it he stands up and looks 
about him, and if he sees anybody else nodding, either wakes them 



366 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

himself, or sends his servant. to them. Several other of the old 
knight's particularities ^ break out upon these occasions. Some- 
times he will be lengthening out a verse in the singing psalms, half a 
minute after the rest of the congregation have done with it: some- 
times, when he is pleased with the matter of his devotion, he pro- 
nounces Amen three or four times to the same prayer, and sometimes 
stands up when everybody else is upon their knees, to count the con- 
gregation, or see if any of his tenants are missing. 

I was yesterday very much surprised to hear my old friend, in 
the midst of the service, calling out to one John Matthews to mind 
what he was about, and not disturb the congregation. This John 
Matthews, it seems, is remarkable for being an idle fellow, and at 
that time was kicking his heels for his diversion. The authority of 
the knight, though exerted in that odd manner which accompanies 
him in all circumstances of life, has a very good effect upon the 
parish, who are not polite ^ enough to see anything ridiculous in his 
behavior; besides that the general good sense and worthiness of his 
character make his friends observe these little singularities as foils, ^ 
that rather set off than blemish his good qualities. 

As soon as the sermon is finished, nobody presumes to stir till 
Sir Roger is gone out of the church. The knight walks down from 
his seat in the chancel ^ between a double row of his tenants, that 
stand bowing to hin> on each side : and every now and then inquires 
how such an one's wife, or mother, or son. or father, does, whom he 
does not see at church ; which is understood as a secret reprimand 
to the person that is absent. 

The chaplain has often told me that upon a catechizing day, when 
Sir Roger has been pleased with a boy that answers well, he has 
ordered a Bible to be given him next day for his encouragement; 
and sometimes accompanies it with a flitch "^ of bacon to his mother. 
Sir Roger has likewise added five pounds a year to the clerk's ^° 
place ; and that he may encourage the young fellows to make them- 
selves perfect in the church-service, has promised, upon the death of 
the present incumbent, who is very old, to bestow it according to 
merit. 

The fair understanding between Sir Roger and his chaplain, and 
their mutual concurrence in doing good, is the more remarkable, 
because the very next village is famous for the differences and con- 



SII^ ROGER BE COVERLEY. 367 

tentions that rise between the parson" and the squire, who live in a 
perpetual state of war. The parson is always preaching at the 
squire ; and the squire, to be revenged on the parson, never comes 
to church. The squire has made all his tenants atheists and tithe- 
stealers ; ^^ while the parson instructs them every Sunday in the dig- 
nity of his order, and insinuates to them in almost every sermon that 
he is a better man than his patron. In short, matters are come to 
such an extremity, that the squire has not said his prayers either in 
public or private this half-year; and that the parson threatens him, 
if he does not mend his manners, to pray for him in the face of the 
whole congregation. 

Feuds of this nature, though too frequent in the country, are very 
fatal to the ordinary people, who are so used to be dazzled with 
riches that they pay as much deference to the understanding of a 
man of an estate as of a man of learning ; and are very hardly '^ 
brought to regard any truth, how important soever it may be, that 
is preached to them, when they know there are several men of five 
hundred a vear who do not believe it. 



III. SIR ROGER'S VISIT TO WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

My friend Sir Roger de Coverley told me the other night that 
he had been reading my paper upon Westminster ' Abbey, " in 
which," says he, "there are a great many ingenious fancies." He 
told me, at the same time, that he observed I had promised another 
paper upon the tombs, and that he should be glad to go and see 
them with me, not having visited them since he had read history. 
I could not at first imagine how this came into the knight's head, till 
I recollected that he had been very busy all last summer upon 
Baker's Chronicle^^ which he has quoted several times in his dis- 
putes with Sir Andrew Freeport ^ since his last coming to town. 
Accordingly. 1 promised to call upon him the next morning, that we 
might go together to the Abbey. 

I found the knight under the butler's hands, who always shaves 
him. He was no sooner dressed, than he called for a glass of the 
Widow Trueby's water,^ which he told me he always drank before he 
went abroad. He recommended to me a dram of it at the same 
time, with so much heartiness that I could not forbear drinking it. 



368 EXGLISH LITERATURE. 

As soon as I had got it down. I found it very unpalatable : upon 
which the knight, observing that I had made several wry faces, told 
me that he knew I should not like it at first, but that it was the best 
thing in the world against the stone or gravel. 

I could have wished, indeed, that he had acquainted me with the 
virtues of it sooner : but it \vas too late to complain, and I knew 
what he had done was out of good-will. Sir Roger told me further, 
that he looked upon it to be verv' good for a man while he staid in 
town, to keep oft infection, and that he got together a quantity of it 
upon the first news of the sickness ^ being at Dantzic : when of a 
sudden, turning short to one of his ser\-ants. who stood behind him. 
he bid him call a hackney-coach.^ and take care it was an elderly 
man that drove it. 

He then resumed his discourse upon r\Irs. Trueby's water, telling 
me that the Widow Trueby was one who did more good than all the 
doctors and apothecaries in the countn,- : that she distilled ever}' 
poppy that grew within five miles of her : that she distributed her 
medicine gratis among all sorts of people : to which the knight 
added, that she had a veiy good jointure/ and that the whole coun- 
try would fain have it a match between him and her : •• and truh*/' 
says Sir Roger. •• if I had not been engaged, perhaps I could not 
have done better." 

His discourse was broken off by his man's telling him he had 
called a coach. Upon our going to it. after ha\'ing cast his eye upon 
the wheels, he asked the coachman if his axle-tree was good. Upon 
the fellow's telling him he would warrant it. the knight turned to me. 
told me he looked like an honest man. and went in without further 
ceremony. 

We had not gone far. when Sir Roger, popping out his head. 
called the coachman down from his box. and upon presenting himself 
at the window, asked him if he smoked. As I was considering what 
this would end in. he bid him stop by the way at any good tobacco- 
nist's, and take in a roll of their best \'irginia.^ Nothing material 
happened in the remaining part of our journey, till we were set down 
at the west end of the Abbey. 

As we w-ent up the body of the church, the knight pointed at 
the trophies'^ upon one of the new monuments, and cried out: •• A 
brave man. I warrant him I "" Passing aftenvard bv Sir Cloudeslev 



SIR ROGER DE COVE RLE Y. 369 

Shovel/° be flung his hand that way, and cried : " Sir Cloudesley 
Shovel ! a very gallant man ! " As we stood before Busby's " tomb, 
the knight uttered himself again after the same manner: " Dr Busby! 
a great man ! he whipped my grandfather ; a very great man ! I 
should have gone to him myself, if I had not been a blockhead ; a 
very great man ! " 

We were immediately conducted into the little chapel '^ on the 
right hand. Sir Roger, planting himself at our historian's '^ elbow, 
was very attentive to everything he said, particularly to the account 
he gave us of the lord who had cut off the king of Morocco's head. 
Among several other figures, he was very well pleased to see the 
statesman Cecil '"^ upon his knees ; and concluding them all to be 
great men, was conducted to the figure which represents that martyr '^ 
to good housewifery, who died by the prick of a needle. Upon our 
interpreter's telling us that she was a maid of honor to Queen Eliza- 
beth, the knight was very inquisitive into her name and family ; and 
after having regarded her finger for some time, " I wonder," says he, 
"that Sir Richard Baker has said nothing of her in his Chronicle.'''' 

We were then conveyed to the two coronation chairs,'^ where 
my old friend, after having heard that the stone underneath the most 
ancient of them, which was brought from Scotland, was called 
Jacob's pillar, sat himself down in the chair; and looking like the 
figure of an old Gothic king, asked our interpreter : " What authority 
they had to say that Jacob had ever been in Scotland ? " The fellow, 
instead of returning him an answer, told him " that he hoped his 
honor would pay his forfeit." '^ I could observe Sir Roger a little 
ruftied upon being thus trepanned ; ^^ but our guide not insisting upon 
his demand, the knight soon recovered his good humor, and whis- 
pered in my ear, that if Will Wimble ^^ were with us, and saw those 
two chairs, it would go hard but he would get a tobacco-stopper out 
of one or t'other of them. 

Sir Roger, in the next place, laid his hand upon Edward III.'s^° 
sword, and leaning upon the pommel of it, gave us the whole history 
of the Black Prince ; concluding, that in Sir Richard Baker's opin- 
ion, Edward III. was one of the greatest princes that ever sat upon 
the English throne. 

We were then shown Edward the Confessor's ^^ tomb ; upon 
which Sir Roger acquainted us, that he was the first that touched 



3/0 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

for the evil : ^^ and afterward' Henry IV.'s, ^^ upon which he shook 
his head, and told us there was fine reading of the casualties of that 
reign. 

Our conductor then pointed to that monument where there is the 
figure of one of our English kings without an head ; "^ and upon giv- 
ing us to know that the head, which was of beaten silver, had been 
stole away several years since : " Some Whig, I'll warrant you," says 
Sir Roger ; " you ought to lock up your kings better; they will carry 
off the body too, if you do not take care." 

The glorious names of Henry V. and Queen Elizabeth gave the 
knight great opportunities of shining, and of doing justice to Sir 
Richard Baker, " who," as our knight observed with some surprise, 
"had a great many kings in him, whose monuments he had not seen 
in the Abbey." 

For my own part, I could not but be pleased to see the knight 
show such an honest passion for the glory of his country, and such 
a respectful gratitude to the memory of its princes. 

I must not omit that the benevolence of my good old friend, 
which flows out toward every one he converses with, made him very 
kind to our interpreter, whom he looked upon as an extraordinary 
man, for which reason he shook him by the hand at parting, telling 
him that he should be very glad to see him at his lodgings in Nor- 
folk Buildings, and talk over these matters with him more at leisure. 



IV. DEATH OF SIR ROGER. 

We last night received a piece of ill news at our club, which 
very sensibly afflicted every one of us. I question not but my readers 
themselves will be troubled at the hearing of it. To keep them no 
longer in suspense, Sir Roger de Coverley is dead. He departed 
this life at his house in the country, after a few weeks' sickness. Sir 
Andrew Freeport has a letter from one of his correspondents in those 
parts, that informs him the old man caught a cold at the county- 
sessions, as he was very warmly promoting an address of his own 
penning, in which he succeeded according to his wishes. But this 
particular comes from a Whig justice of peace, who was always Sir 
Roger's enemy and antagonist. I have letters both from the chap- 
lain and Captain Sentry,^ which mention nothing of it, but are filled 



S/A' ROGER DE COVERLEY. 3/1 

with many particulars to the honor of the good old man. I have 
likewise a letter from the butler, who took so much care of me last 
summer when I was at the knight's house. As my friend, the butler, 
mentions, in the simplicity of his heart, several circumstances the 
others have passed over in silence, I shall give my reader a copy of 
his letter, without any alteration or diminution. 

" Honored Sir — Knowing that you was my old master's good friend, I 
could not forbear sending you the melancholy news of his death, which has 
afflicted the whole country as well as his poor servants, who loved him, I 
may say, better than we did our lives. I am afraid he caught his death at 
the last county-sessions, where he would go to see justice done to a poor 
widow woman and her fatherless children, that had been wronged by a neigh- 
boring gentleman; for you know, my good master was always the poor man's 
friend. Upon his coming home, the first complaint he made was, that he 
had lost his roast-beef stomach, not being able to touch a sirloin which was 
served up according to custom; and you know he used to take great delight 
in it. From that time forward he grew worse and worse, but still kept a 
good heart to the last. Indeed, we were once in great hope of his recovery, 
upon a kind message that was sent him from the widow lady "^ whom he had 
made love to the forty last years of his life; but this only proved a lightning 
before his death. He has bequeathed to this lady, as a token of his love, a 
great pearl necklace, and a couple of silver bracelets set with jewels, which 
belonged to my good lady his mother. He has bequeathed the fine white 
gelding that he used to ride a-hunting upon to his chaplain, because he 
thought he would be kind to him; and has left you all his books. He has 
moreover bequeathed to the chaplain a very pretty tenement, with good lands 
about it. It being a very cold day when he made his will, he left for mourn- 
ing, to every man in the parish, a great frieze ^ coat, and to every woman a 
black riding-hood. It was a moving sight to see him take leave of his poor 
servants, commending us all for our fidelity, while we were not able to speak 
a word for weeping. As we most of us are grown gray-headed in our dear 
master's service, he has left us pensions and legacies, which we may live very 
comfortably upon the remaining part of our days. He has bequeathed a 
great deal more in charity, which is not yet come to my knowledge ; and it is 
peremptorily said in the parish that he has left money to build a steeple to 
the church; for he was heard to say some time ago, that if he lived two 
years longer, Coverley church should have a steeple to it. The chaplain tells 
everybody he made a very good end, and never speaks of him without tears. 
He was buried, according to his own directions, among the family of the 
Coverleys, on the left hand of his father Sir Arthur. The cofftn was carried 



372 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

by six of his tenants, and the pall 'held up by six of the quorum.^ The whole 
parish followed the corpse with heavy hearts, and in their mourning suits; the 
men in frieze, and the women in riding-hoods. Captain Sentry, my master's 
nephew, has taken possession of the Hall-house and the whok estate. When 
my old master saw him a little before his death, he shook him by the hand, 
and wished him joy of the estate which was falling to him, desiring him only 
to make a good use of it, and to pay the several legacies and the gifts of 
charity, which he told him he had left as quit-rents^ upon the estate. The 
captain truly seems a courteous man, though he says but little. He makes 
much of those whom my master loved, and shows great kindness to the old 
house-dog that you know my poor master was so fond of. It would have 
gone to your heart to have heard the moans the dumb creature made on the 
day of my master's death. He has never joyed himself since; no more has 
any of us. It was the melancholiest day for the poor people that ever hap- 
pened in Worcestershire. This is all from, honored sir, your most sorrowful 
servant, 

Edward Biscuit. 

P. S. — ]My master desired, some weeks before he died, that a book, 
which comes up to you by the carrier, should be given to Sir Andrew Free- 
port in his name." 

This letter, notwithstanding the poor butler's manner of writing 
it. gave us such an idea of our good old friend, that upon the read- 
ing of it there was not a dry eye in the club. Sir Andrew opening 
the book, found it to be a collection of acts of parliament. There 
Nvas in particular the Act of Uniformity, with some passages in it 
marked by Sir Roger's own hand. Sir Andrew found that they 
related to two or three points which he had disputed with Sir Roger 
the last time he appeared at the club. Sir Andrew, who would have 
been merry at such an incident on another occasion, at the sight of 
the old man's writing burst into tears, and put the book in his pocket. 
Captain Sentn,- informs me that the knight has left rings and mourn- 
ino- for even,- one in the club. 



NOTES TO SIR ROGER DE COVER LEY. 373 



NOTES TO SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY. 

The Sir Roger de Coverley papers are taken from the Spectator, and well 
exhibit the elegant style and delicate humor of Addison. 



I. 

1. I/umor = disposition. Fr. humcur-=^ Lat. hHino}'cm,ixova hio/iere, 
to be moict. Cf. h timid. 

2. An hedge. — Addison frequently uses an before a sounded h. 

3. Knight— Sir Roger. A. S. cniht, a boy, servant. Cf. Ger. Knecht. 

4. Valet-de-chambre = a body servant or personal attendant. Pro- 
rounced vdl-d de shdm-hr. 

5. Privy-councillor ^= a member of the privy council ; one of the distin- 
guished persons selected by a sovereign to advise in the administration of the 
government. Equivalent to our cabinet officer. 

6. /'rt'f/ = an easy-paced horse. 

7. Tenipered=^ softened. 

8. /(^«;;/cz«//)' = kindness, oenevolence. 

9. Nature = character. 

10. 7"z;/^W = slightly colored. Lat. tingere, to dye. 

1 1 . Instdted, etc. — Sir Roger, in common with the country gentlemen of 
the time, made but little pretension to learning. 

12. Backganifnon. — The common etymology derives it from the Welsh 
bach, little, and caj?ijnon, a battle. But this Skeat pronounces "a worthless 
guess." 

13. Parsonage = the benefice or church living of the parish; not the 
house used as a residence by pastors. 

14. Digested — distributed or arranged methodically. 

15. Divinity =^ theology, or the science which treats of God, his laws, 
and moral government. 

16. These were distinguished divines, three of whom, Tillotson, South, 
and Barrow, still deserve to be studied. 



374 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

II. 

1. Habits =^ attire, dress. 

2. ''Change = Exchange; that is, the place where the merchants, bro- 
kers, and bankers of a city meet at certain hours to transact business. 

3. CJiiircJiDian = an EpiscopaUan as distinguished from a Presbyterian 
or Congregationahst. 

4. Hassock = a thick mat for kneeling in church. 

5. Particularities =^ peculiarities, individual characteristics. 

6. Polite = polished, refined. 

7. Foils — anything that serves to set off another thing to advantage. 
See Webster. 

8. Chancel = the part of a church between the communion table and the 
railing that encloses it. O. F. chancel, an enclosure, from Lat. cancellits, a 
grating. 

9. Flitch = the side of a hog salted and cured. 

10. Clerk = a parish ofBcer, being a layman who leads in reading the 
responses of the Episcopal Church service. 

11. Parson = a clergyman. Parson and person are the same word, from 
Lat. persona. Blackstone says: " K parson, persona ecclesice, is one that hath 
full possession of all the rights of a parochial church. He is called parson, 
persona, because by his person the church, which is an invisible body, is 
represented." — "This reason may well be doubted," says Skeat, " ^^ '^- 
without affecting the etymology." 

12. Tithe-stealers. — A tithe is the tenth part of the increase arising from 
the profits of land and stock, allotted to the clergy for their support. 

13. Very hardly := with great difficulty. 



III. 

In a previous number of the Spectator Addison tells us of Sir Roger's 
visit to London. 

1. Westminster Abbey ^^ a famous cathedral in London, in which the 
British sovereigns are crowned, and in which many of them are buried. 
Addison made it the subject of the twenty-sixth paper in the Spectator. 

2. Baker'' s Chronicle. — Sir Richard Baker was born in 1568; and his 
book, the full title of which is " Chronicle of the Kings of England," was 
popular in the last century. 

3. Sir Andre7o Freeport-^2i% a member of the imaginary club, to which 
the Spectator and Sir Roger belonged. 

4. Wido7u IVueby's water = a strong drink said to have been much 
used by the ladies as an exhilarant. From what we know of Addison's 
bibulous habits, we may conclude that his dislike is only assumed for effect. 



NOTES TO SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY. 375 

5. Sickness =^ the plague, which prevailed at Dantzic in 1709. 

6. Hackney-coach = a coach kept for hire. 

7. yoi7iture := an estate settled on a wife, and which she is to enjoy 
after her husband's decease. 

8. Virginia — a common name for tobacco in Addison's time. 

9. Trophies = representations in marble of a pile of arms taken from 
a vanquished enemy. 

10. Sir Cloudeslcy Shovel. — The visitors passed by his monument. A 
distinguished British admiral, commander-in-chief of the British fleets. Re- 
turning to England in 1707, his ship struck on the rocks near Scilly and sank 
with all on board. The body of Sir Cloudesley Shovel was found next day, 
and buried in Westminster Abbey. 

11. Richard Busby was for fifty-five years, from 1640 to 1695, headmaster 
of Westminster School. It has been said that he " bred up the greatest 
number of learned scholars that ever adorned any age or nation." He was 
equally noted for his learning, assiduity, and application of the birch. 

12. Little chapel, etc. = the chapel of St. Edmund. In cathedrals, 
chapels are usually annexed in the recesses on the sides of the aisles. 

13. Historian = the guide who shows visitors through the Abbey. 

14. Robert Cecil, Earl of Salisbury, was born in 1550 and died in 1612. 
In 1608 he was made Lord High Treasurer. A man of immense energy and 
far-reaching sagacity — the best minister of his time, but cold, selfish, and 
unscrupulous. 

15. Martyr, etc. —This is described as "an elaborate statue of Eliza- 
beth Russell of the Bedford family — foolishly shown for many years as the 
lady who died by the prick of a needle." Goldsmith characterizes the story 
as one of a hundred lies that the guide tells without blushing. 

16. Coronation chairs = two chairs in the Chapel of Edward the 
Confessor used at the coronation of the sovereigns of Great Britain. The 
more ancient of the two contains the famous "Stone of Scone," on which 
the kings of Scotland were crowned. The stone was brought to England by 
Edward I. in 1304. The other coronation chair was placed in the Abbey in 
the reign of William and Mary. 

17. Forfeit, that is, for sitting in the chair. 

18. 7";v/a«;/^c/ = ensnared, caught. Another form of the verb is 
trapan. From Fr. trappe, a trap. 

19. IVill Wimble is described in one of the Coverley papers as 
" younger brother to a baronet. ... He is now between forty and fifty, but 
being bred to no business, and born to no estate, he generally lives with his 
elder brother as superintendent of his game. He hunts a pack of dogs 
better than any man in the country, and is very famous for finding out a 
hare," etc. He was a neighbor and friend of Sir Roger. 



Ij6 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

20. Edward III. was born in 13 12 and died in 1376. He gained 
many victories, including that of Crecy. During his reign many salutary 
laws were enacted, and art and literature flourished. The Black Prince was 
his son. 

21. Edxuard the Confessoj-, king of the Anglo-Saxons, was born in 
1004 and died in 1066, the year of the Conquest. 

22. The evil=2i scrofulous disease known as " king's evil." It was 
formerly believed that the touch of a king would cure it. 

23. Hen?'}' IV. was born in 1366 and died in 1413, after a troubled 
reign of fourteen years. 

24. The monument in question was that of Henry V., the hero of 
Agincourt. He was born in 13S8 and died in 1422. The head of the effigy, 
which was of silver, was stolen at the time of the Protestant Reformation. 



IV. 

1. Captain Sentj'v was Sir Roger's nephew and heir. 

2. The widow lady captivated Sir Roger in his early manhood. A 
full account of the circumstances will be found in the Spectator No. 113. 
Elsewhere Sir Roger says: "When I reflect upon this woman, I do not 
know whether in the main I am the worse for having loved her; whenever 
she is recalled to my imagination, my youth returns, and I feel a forgotten 
warmth in my veins. This affliction in my life has streaked all my conduct 
with a softness, of which I should otherwise have been incapable." 

3. Frieze = a coarse woollen cloth with a nap on one side. 

4. Quorum = justice-court. 

5. Quit-rent = a rent reserved in grants of land, by the payment of 
which the tenant is quieted or quit from all other service. 



ALEXANDER POPE. 377 



ALEXANDER POPE. 

The greatest literary character of this period is Alexander 
Pope. In his life we find much to admire and much to con- 
demn ; but we cannot deny him the tribute of greatness. With 
his spiteful temper and habitual artifice we can have no sym- 
pathy ; but we recognize in him the power of an indomitable 
will supported by genius and directed to a single object. 

He triumphed over the most adverse circumstances. A 
lowly birth cut him off from social position ; his Roman Cath- 
olic faith brought political ostracism ; and a dwarfed, sickly, 
deformed body excluded him from the vocations in which 
wealth and fame are usually acquired. Yet, in spite of this 
combination of hostile circumstances, he achieved the highest 
literary distinction, attracted to him the most eminent men of 
his day, and associated on terms of equality with the proudest 
nobility. 

Alexander Pope was born in London in 1688, the memor- 
able year of the Revolution. His father, a Roman Catholic, 
was a linen merchant ; and shortly after the poet's birth, he re- 
tired with a competent fortune to a small estate at Binfield in 
Windsor Forest. 

Though delicate and deformed, the future poet is repre- 
sented as having been a sweet-tempered child ; and his voice 
was so agreeable that he was playfully called the " little night- 
ingale." Excluded from the public schools on account of his 
father's faith, he passed successively under the tuition of three 
or four Roman priests, from whom he learned the rudiments 
of Latin and Greek. In after years he thought it no disad- 
vantage that his education had been irregular ; for, as he ob- 
served, he read the classic authors, not for the words, but for 
the sense. 



3/8 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

At the age of twelve he formed a plan of study for hhnself, 
and plunged into the delights of miscellaneous reading with 
such ardor that he came near putting an end to his life. While 
dipping into philosophy, theology, and history, he delighted 
most in poetry and criticism ; and either in the original or in 
translations (for he read what was easiest), he familiarized him- 
self with the leading poets and critics of ancient and modern 
times. But in the strict sense of the term he never became a 
scholar. Seeing all other avenues of life closed to him, he early 
resolved to devote himself to poetry, to which no doubt he felt 
the intuitive impulse of genius. He showed remarkable pre- 
cocity in rhyme. In his own language, — 

" As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, 
I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came." 

He was encouraged in his early attempts by his father, who 
assigned him subjects, required frequent revisions, and ended 
with the encouragement, " These are good rhymes." Before 
venturing before the public as an author, he served a long and 
remarkable apprenticeship to poetry. Whenever a passage in 
any foreign author pleased him, he turned it into English verse. 
Before the age of fifteen he composed an epic of four thousand 
lines, in which he endeavored, in different passages, to imitate 
the beauties of Milton, Cowley, Spenser, Statins, Homer, Virgil, 
Ovid, and Claudian. " My first taking to imitating,"' he says, 
" w^as not out of vanity, but humility. I saw how defective 
my own things were, and endeavored to mend my manner by 
copying good strokes from others." 

Among English authors he fixed upon Dryden as his model, 
for whom he felt so great a veneration that he persuaded some 
friends to take him to the coffee-house frequented by that dis- 
tinguished poet. "Who does not wish," asks Johnson, "that 
Dryden could have known the value of the homage that was 
paid him, and foreseen the greatness of his young admirer? " 

His earliest patron, if such he may be called, was Sir Wil- 
liam Trumbull, who, after serving as ambassador at Constanti- 



ALEXANDER POPE. 379 

nople under James II., and as secretary of state under William 
III., had withdrawn from public service and fixed his residence 
in the neighborhood of Binfield. The extraordinary precocity 
of the youthful poet delighted the aged statesman, who was ac- 
customed to ride and discuss the classics with him. It was 
from him that Pope received the first suggestion to translate 
the "Iliad." 

Another acquaintance belonging to this 3-outhful period was 
William Walsh, a Worcestershire gentleman of fortune, who 
had some reputation at the time as a poet and critic. From 
him the ambitious youth received a bit of advice which has 
become famous: "We have had several great poets," he said, 
" but we have never had one great poet who was correct ; and 
I advise you to make that your study and aim." This advice 
Pope evidently laid to heart. 

At this time he made also the acquaintance of Wycherly, 
whose store of literary anecdote about a past generation 
greatly entertained him. Unfortunately, however, his assist- 
ance was asked in revising some of Wycherly's verses ; and 
this task he performed with so much conscientiousness and 
ability — cutting out here and adding there — that the aged 
author was mortified and offended. 

At the age of sixteen Pope circulated some " Pastorals," 
which were pronounced equal to anything Virgil had produced 
at the same age. Before he had passed his teens he was recog- 
nized as the most promising writer of his time, and was courted 
by the leading wits and people of fashion. 

The first great work that Pope produced was the " Essay on 
Criticism," which was published in 171 1. It was written two 
years previously, when the author was but twenty-one years of 
age. As was his custom with all his writings, he kept it by him 
for this period in order to revise and polish it. 

It shows a critical power and soundness of judgment that 
usually belong only to age and experience. It is true that the 
critical principles he lays down are not original or novel. At 
this time Pope had his head full of critical literature. Horace's 



38o EXGLISir LITERATURE. 

Ars Pocfica and Boileau's L \4rt Foctiquc were perfectly fa- 
miliar to him. to say nothing of Quintilian and Aristotle. He 
embodied in his poem the principles he found in his authorities. 
But he did this with such felicity of expression and aptness of 
illustration as to win the admiration, not only of his contempo- 
raries, but also of succeeding generations. 

*" One would scarcely ask."" says Leslie Stephen, "for origi- 
nality in such a case, anv more than one would desire a writer 
on ethics to invent new la\vs of morality. \A'e require neither 
Pope nor Aristotle to tell us that critics should not be pert nor 
prejudiced; that fancy should be regulated by judgment : that 
apparent facility comes bv long training : that the sound should 
have some conformity to the meaning : that genius is often en- 
vied : and that dulness is frequently beyond the reach of re- 
proof. We might even guess, without the authority of Pope, 
backed by Bacon, that there are some beauties which cannot 
be taught by method, but must be reached 'by a kind of feli- 
citv." "" Yet these commonplaces of criticism Pope has presented 
in inimitable form, exemplif3-ing one of his own couplets : — 

"True wit is nature to advantage dressed; 
What oft was tliought. but ne'er so well expressed." 

The "Essay" is full of felicitous statements that instantly 
command the assent of the judgment, and tix themselves in the 
memorv. Some of the lines are in daily use. Who has not 
heard that — 

"To err is human: to forgive, divine." 
And also — 

'■ For fools rush in where angels fear to tread." 

By the poet's striking presentation we are sometimes tempted 
to accept error for truth, as when he tell us. — 

"A little learning is a dangerous thing ! 
Drink deep, or taste not the Fierian spring." 

His own lines often furnish a happy exemplification of his 
maxims. He tells us, for instance, — 



ALEXANDER POPE. 38 1 

*' 'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence, 
The sound must seem an echo to the sense." 

Then, by way of illustration, he continues, — 

" Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, 
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows; 
But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, 
The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar. 
When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, 
The line, too, labors, and the words move slow; 
Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain, 
Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main." 

But the poem is not without its faults. It would be too 
much to expect that ; for, as he says, — 

" Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see. 
Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, 'nor e'er shall be." 

Its extreme conciseness renders it obscure in places ; words 
are sometimes used in a vague and variable sense ; and there 
is a noticeable poverty of rhymes, " wit " and " sense " and 
"fools" being badly overworked. Yet, if he had written noth- 
ing else, this production alone would have given him a high 
rank as critic and poet. 

The publication of the " Essay " was the beginning of a 
ceaseless strife with contemporary writers. In the following 
lines the youthful poet had the temerity to attack Dennis, 
whose acquaintance we made in the sketch of Addison : — 

" But Appius reddens at each word you speak. 
And stares tremendous with a threatening eye, 
Like some fierce tyrant in old tapestry." 

This graphic picture inflamed the belligerent Dennis ; and he 
made a bitter personal attack upon Pope, of whom, among other 
savage things, he says : " He may extol the ancients, but he 
has reason to thank the gods that he was born a modern ; for 
had he been born of Grecian parents, and his father conse- 



382 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

quently had by law had the absolute disposal of him, his life 
had been no longer than that of one of his poems — the life of 
half a day." 

Though Pope affected to despise these attacks, yet his sensi- 
tive nature was deeply wounded by them. To some friends he 
remarked, when one of Gibber's pamphlets came into his hand, 
" These things are my diversion." But they noticed that his 
features, as he read, writhed with anguish ; and when alone 
one of them expressed the hope that he might be preserved 
from such diversion as had been that day the lot of Pope. 
But, as we shall see, his revenge was terrific. 

The next important production of Pope was " The Rape of 
the Lock," published in 17 12. It is the most brilliant mock- 
heroic poem ever written. The subject is trifling enough. 
Lord Petre, a man of fashion at the court of Queen Anne, 
playfully cut off a lock of hair from the head of Miss Ara- 
bella Fermor, a beautiful maid of honor. This freedom was 
resented by the lady, and the friendly intercourse of the two 
families was interrupted. To put the two parties into good 
humor, and thus to effect a reconciliation, Pope devised this 
humorous epic. Sylphs, gnomes, nymphs, and salamanders 
form a part of the delicate poetic machinery. Here is a de- 
scription of the unfortunate lock : — 

"This nymph, to the destruction of mankind, 

Nourished two locks, which graceful hung behind 
In equal curls, and well conspired to deck 
With shining ringlets the smooth iv'ry neck. 
Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains, 
And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. 
With hairy springes we the birds betray; 
Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey; 
Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare, 
And beauty draws us with a single hair." 

Speaking of the trifling circumstances that gave rise to this 
poem, Roscoe says : " To Cowley it might have suggested some 
quaint witticisms or forced allusions ; to Waller or Suckhng, 



ALEXANDER POPE. 383 

a metaphysical song ; Dryden would have celebrated it in some 
strong lines, remarkable for their poetical spirit, and perhaps 
not less so for their indelicacy ; while, by the general tribe of 
poets, it never could have been extended further than to a 
sweet epigram or a frigid sonnet. What is it in the hands of 
Pope ? An animated and moving picture of human life and 
manners ; a lively representation of the whims and follies of the 
times ; an important contest, in which we find ourselves deeply 
engaged : for the interest is so supported, the manner so ludi- 
crously serious, the characters so marked and distinguished, the 
resentment of the heroine so natural, and the triumph of the 
conqueror so complete, that we unavoidably partake the emo- 
tions of the parties, and alternately sympathize, approve, or 
condemn." 

In 1 7 13 Pope undertook the translation of Homer's "Iliad." 
The work was published by subscription ; and as he had already 
gained recognition as the first poet of his time, the enterprise 
met with generous encouragement. Among other influential* 
friends, Swift was active in securing subscriptions. 

At first the poet was appalled at the magnitude of his un- 
dertaking, and wished, to use his own phrase, that somebody 
would hang him. But facility increased with practice ; and 
his defective knowledge of Greek was remedied by the use of 
translations and the aid of scholarly friends. 

This translation, in connection with the " Odyssey," was his 
principal labor for twelve years, and it brought a remunera- 
tion that had never before been realized by an English author. 
He received altogether about eight thousand pounds, which 
furnished him with a competency the rest of his life. 

The translation is wrought out with exceeding care ; but in 
its artificial character, it is far from reproducing the simplicity 
of the original. It brings Homer before us in a dress-suit. 
Bentley's criticism was exactly to the point : " It is a pretty 
poem, Mr. Pope, but you must not call it Homer." Yet it is a 
wonderful work ; and Johnson was not far wrong when he said, 
" It is certainly the noblest version of poetry which the world 



384 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

has ever seen, and its publication must therefore be considered 
as one of the great events in the annals of learning.'" 

In the sketch of Addison, reference was made to the ill- 
feeling existing between the illustrious essayist and Pope. It 
came to an open rupture in connection with the publication of 
the " Iliad.'' Tickell, a friend of Addison's, undertook a rival 
translation. He had Addison's encouragement, and perhaps 
also his assistance. It is possible that the essayist felt some 
jealousy of the rising reputation of the poet, and used his in- 
fluence, in a civil way, to depreciate the latter's work. At all 
events, news of this sort came to Pope ; and " the next day," he 
says, " while I was heated with what I had heard, I wrote a let- 
ter to Mr. Addison, to let him know that I was not unacquainted 
with this behavior of his ; that if I was to speak severely of 
him, in return for it, it should not be in such a dirty way ; that 
I should rather tell him, himself, fairly of his faults, and allow 
his good qualities ; and that it should be something in the fol- 
^lowing manner." He then added what has since become the 
famous satire on Addison, in which the lack of justice is made 
up by brilliancy of wit : — 

" Peace t® all such; but were there one whose fires 
True genius kindles and fair fame inspires; 
Blest with each talent and each art to please, 
And born to write, converse, and live with ease; 
Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, 
Bear like the Turk no brother nea*r the throne, 
View him with scornful yet with jealous eyes, 
And hate for arts that caused himself to rise, 
Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, 
And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; 
Willing to wound and yet afraid to strike, 
lust hint a fault and hesitate dislike, 
Alike reserved to blame or to commend, 
A timorous foe and a suspicious friend; 
Dreading e'en fools, by flatterers besieged. 
And so obliging that he ne'er obliged; 
Like Cato give his little Senate laws, 
And sit attentive to his own applause, 



ALEXANDER POPE. 385 

While wits and templars every sentence raise, 
And wonder with a foolish face of praise; — 
Who but must laugh if such a man there be? 
Who would not weep if Atticus were he? " 

After becoming independent from the proceeds of his 
Homeric translations, Pope removed to the villa of Twicken- 
ham, where he spent the remainder of his life. Here he re- 
ceived his friends, who were among the most polished men of 
the time. Gay, Arbuthnot, Bolingbroke, Peterborough, Swift, 
were all warmly attached to him — " the most brilliant company 
of friends," says Thackeray, " that the world has ever seen." 

We should not forget the filial piety he showed his parents 
— one of the most beautiful feature's of the poet's life. How- 
ever spiteful, acrimonious, and exacting toward others, to his 
mother he was always tender, considerate, patient. In her old 
age he stayed by her, denying himself the pleasure of long 
visits and foreign travel. While conventionally courteous and 
formal in his relations to other women, for whom, after the 
fashion of the time, he seemed to entertain no high opinion, 
he was simple and unaffected toward her. And when she died, 
he spoke of her with peculiar tenderness : " I thank God, her 
death was as easy as her life was innocent ; and as it cost her 
not a groan, or even a sigh, there is yet upon her countenance 
such an expression of tranquillity, nay, almost of pleasure, that 
it is even enviable to behold it. It would afford the finest 
image of a saint expired that ever painter drew." 

As soon as Homer was off his hands, he proceeded to get 
even with the critics who had attacked his previous writings. 
The result was the " Dunciad," the most elaborate satirical 
performance in our language, which was given to the public in 

•728. 

We cannot think that, as he claims, his object was " doing 
good " by exposing ignorant and pretentious authors ; from 
what we know of his character, we are justified in supposing 
that personal pique animated him no less than zeal for the 
honor of literature. Theobald, whose grievous offence was sur- 



386 EXGLISH LITEKA7-UKE. 

passing Pope in editing Shakespeare, is elevated to the throne 
of Duhiess. though he is afterwards deposed to make place for 
Gibber. 

•• On the day the book was first vended,"" Pope tells us, '"a 
crowd of authors besieged the shop ; entreaties, advices, threats 
of law and battery, nay. cries of treason, were all employed to 
hinder the coming out of the ' Dunciad ; ' on the other side, the 
booksellers and hawkers made as great efforts to procure it. 
What could *a few poor authors do against so great a majority as 
the public ? There was no stopping a torrent with a finger, so 
out it came."' 

The satire had the desired effect ; it blasted the characters 
it touched. One of the victims complained that for a time he 
was in danger of starving, as the publishers had no longer any 
confidence in his ability. The poem is not interesting as a 
whole, but contains many splendid flights, as in the conclud- 
ing lines, which describe the eclipse of learning and morality 
under the darkening reign of advancing Dulness : — 

" She comes ! she comes I the sable throne behold 
Of Night primeval, and of Chaos old I 
Before her Fancy's gilded clouds decay, 
And all its varying rainbows die away. 
Wit shoots in vain its momentary fires, 
The meteor drops, and in a flash expires. 
As one by one, at dread Medea's strain, 
The sickening stars fade off th' ethereal plain; 
As Argus' eyes, by Hermes' wand oppressed, 
Closed one by one to everlasting rest; 
Thus at her felt approach, and secret might. 
Art after art goes out, and all is night; 
See skulking Truth to her old cavern fled, 
Mountains of casuistry heap'd o'er her head! 
Philosophy, that lean'd on Heaven liefore, 
Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more. 
Physic of Metaphysic begs defence, 
And Metaphysic calls for aid on Sense ! 
See Mystery to Mathematics fly ! 
In vain, they gaze, turn giddy, rave, and die. 



ALEXANDER POPE. 387 

Religion, blushing, veils her sacred fires, 
And unawares Morality expires. 
Nor public flame, nor private dares to shine; 
Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine 
Lo, thy dread empire, Chaos! is restored; 
Light dies before thy uncreating word : 
Thy hand, great Anarch, lets the curtain fall, 
And universal darkness buries all." 

This is, indeed, a fine passage, repaying careful study ; but 
it hardly deserves the extravagant praise bestowed upon it by 
Thackeray. "In these astonishing lines," he says, "Pope 
reaches, I think, to the very greatest height which his sublime 
art has attained, and shows himself the equal of all poets of 
all times. It is the bri'ghtest ardor, the loftiest assertion of 
truth, the most generous wisdom, illustrated by the noblest 
poetic figure, and spoken in words the aptest, grandest, and 
most harmonious. It is heroic courage speaking ; a splendid 
declaration of righteous wrath and war. It is the gage flung 
down, and the silver trumpet ringing defiance to falsehood and 
tyranny, deceit, dulness, superstition." 

The "Essay on Man," his noblest work, appeared in 1733. 
It consists of four " Epistles : " the first treats of man in rela- 
tion to the universe ; the second, in relation to himself ; the 
third, in relation to society ; and the fourth, in relation to hap- 
piness. The " Epistles " are addressed to Bolingbroke, by 
whom the " Essay " was suggested, and from whom many of 
its principles proceeded. It is not so much a treatise on man 
as on the moral government of the world. Its general purpose 

is to — 

" Vindicate the ways of God to man." 

This is done by an application of the principles of natural 
religion to the origin of evil, the wisdom of the Creator, and 
the constitution of the world. But, as a whole, the "Essay" 
does not present a consistent and logical system of teaching. 
Pope was not master of the deep theme he had undertaken ; 
and he was content to pick up in various authors whatever he 



388 ENGLISH LITERATURE, 

could fit into his general plan. On the one hand he was 
attacked for having written against religion. Certainly moral 
responsibility disappears if we accept his declaration, — 

" One truth is cleaTr; whatever is, is right." 

On the other hand, Warburton came forward to defend his 
orthodoxy; and his championship was gratefully accepted by 
the poet. " You have made my system," Pope wrote to him, 
" as clear as I ought to have done, and could not. ... I know 
I meant just what you explain, but I did not explain my own 
meaning as well as you. You understand me as well as I do 
m3^self, but you express me better than I could express 
myself." 

When, however, we turn from the whole to the separate 
parts, we are astonished at the marvellous expression and inim- 
itable form. We may call it, with Dugald Stewart, " the 
noblest specimen of philosophical poetry which our language 
affords." Single truths have never had more splendid state- 
ment. Here is his amplification of the truth that all things 
exist in God : — 

" All are but parts of one stupendous whole, 
Whose body Nature is, and God the soul; 
That, changed through all, and yet in all the same, 
Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame, 
Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze. 
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees; 
Lives through all life, extends through all extent, 
Spreads undivided, operates unspent; 
Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part. 
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart; 
As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, 
As the rapt seraph that adores and burns : 
To him no high, no low, no great, no small; 
He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all." 

The religion of nature, as seen in the savage, has never had 
better expression than this : — 



ALEXANDER POPE. 389 

" Lo, the poor Indian ! whose untutor'd mind 
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind; 
His soul proud science never taught to stray 
Far as the solar walk, or milky way; 
Yet simple nature to his hope has given, 
Behind the cloud-topp'd hill an humbler heaven; 
Some safer world in depth of woods embraced, 
Some happier island in the watery waste, 
Where slaves once more their native land behold, 
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. 
To be, contents his natural desire. 
He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire; 
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, 
His faithful dog shall bear him company." 

Pope died in 1744. A few days before his death he be- 
came delirious. On recovering his rationality he referred to 
his deUrium as a sufficient humiliation of the vanity of man. 
BoUngbroke was told that during his last illness Pope was al- 
ways saying something kind of his present or absent friends, 
and that his humanity seemed to have survived his understand- 
ing. "It has so," replied the statesman; "and I never in my 
Ufe knew a man that had so tender a heart for his particular 
friends, or more general friendship for mankind." 

As the end drew near, Pope was asked whether a priest 
should not be called. He replied, " I do not think it essential, 
but it will be very right; and I thank you for putting me in 
mind of it." He had undoubting confidence in a future state. 
Shortly after receiving the sacrament, he said, "There is noth- 
ing that is meritorious but virtue and friendship, and indeed 
friendship itself is only a part of virtue." He lies buried at 
Twickenham. 

In appearance he was the most insignificant of English 
writers. He was a dwarf, four feet high, hunch-backed, and so 
crooked that he was called the " Interrogation Point." His life 
was one long disease. He required help in dressing and un- 
dressing; and to keep erect, he had to encase his body in stays. 
Extremely sensitive to cold, he wore three or four times the 



390 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

usual amount of clothing. But his face was pleasing, his voice 
agreeable, and his eyes especially were beautiful and expressive. 
He was fastidious in dress and elegant in manner. As might 
naturally be expected, he was punctilious and troublesome, re- 
quiring so much attention that he was the dread of servants. 
Fond of highly seasoned dishes, and unable to control his ap- 
petite, he frequently made himself sick by over-eating. 

He was singularly lacking in manly frankness, seeking -al- 
ways to attain his ends by artifice. It was said of him that he 
hardly drank tea without stratagem ; and Lady Bolingbroke 
used to say that " he played the politician about cabbages and 
turnips." But he carried his artifice to higher matters, and 
manipulated his correspondence and his writings in the interest 
of his reputation. 

His character was full of contradictions. While professing 
to disregard fame, he courted it ; while affecting superiority to 
the great, he took pleasure in enumerating the men of high 
rank among his acquaintances ; while appearing indifferent to 
his own poetry, saying that he wrote when " he just had noth- 
ing else to do," he was always revolving some poetical scheme 
in his head, so that, as Swift complained, he was never at 
leisure for conversation ; and while pretending insensibility to 
censure, he writhed under the attacks of critics. Yet it is to 
his credit that he never put up his genius to the highest bidder, 
and that he never indulged in base flattery for selfish ends. 
His translation of the " Iliad " he dedicated, not to influen- 
tial statesmen or titled nobility, but to the second-rate drama- 
tist, Congreve. In his view of life he fixed his attention upon 
its petty features, forgetting the divine and eternal relations 
that give it dignity and worth. There is truth in the following 
lines, but it is only one-sided : — 

" Behold the child, by nature's kindly law, 
Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw : 
Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight, 
A little louder, but as empty quite; 



ALEXANDER POPE. 39 1 

Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his riper age, 
And beads and prayer-books are the toys of age; 
Pleased with this bauble still, as that before, 
Till tired he sleeps, and life's poor play is o'er," 

Virtue, love, divine stewardship, and eternal life take away 
this pettiness, and give our existence here beauty and 
grandeur. 

As a poet, it is too much to claim that his verses attained 
the highest imaginative flights, such as we find in Shakespeare 
and Tennyson. He was not swayed by the fine frenzy, the 
over-mastering convictions, and the tormenting passions that 
irresistibly force. an utterance. He conformed his writings to a 
conventional form. He sought above all, in imitation of clas- 
sical models, correctness of style. And, in the words of James 
Russell Lowell, " in his own province he still stands unap- 
proachably alone. If to be the greatest satirist of individual 
men, rather than of human nature, if to be the highest expres- 
sion which the life of the court and the ballroom has ever 
found in verse, if to have added more phrases to our language 
than any other but Shakespeare, if to have charmed four gen- 
erations, make a man a great poet, — then he is one. He was 
the chief founder of an artificial style of writing, which in his 
hands was living and powerful, because he used it to express 
artificial modes of thinking and an artificial state of society. 
Measured by any high standard of imagination, he will be 
found wanting ; tried by any test of wit, he is unrivalled." 



392 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM. 

PART I. 

'Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill 
Appear in writing or in judging ill ; 
But, of the two, less dangerous is the offence 
To tire our patience, than mislead our sense. 
Some few in that, but numbers err in this ; 
Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss ; 
A fool might once himself alone expose. 
Now one in verse makes many more in prose. 

'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none 
Go just alike, yet each believes his own. lo 

In poets as true genius is but rare. 
True taste as seldom is the critic's share ; 
Both must alike from Heaven derive their light, 
These born to judge, as well as those to write. 
Let such teach others who themselves excel, 
And censure freely, who have written well. 
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true, 
But are not critics to their judgment, too ? 

Yet, if we look more closely, we shall find 
Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind : 20 

Nature affords at least a glimmering light. 
The lines, though touched but faintly, are drawn right ; 
But, as the slighest sketch, if justly traced. 
Is, by ill-coloring, but the more disgraced, 
So, by false learning, is good sense defaced : 
Some are bewildered in the maze of schools. 
And some made coxcombs nature meant but fools. 
In search of wit these lose their common sense. 
And then turn critics in their own defence : 

Each burns alike, who can or cannot write, 3° 

Or with a rival's or an eunuch's spite. 
All fools have still an itching to deride. 
And fain would be upon the laughing side. 



AAT ESSAY ON CRITICISM. 393 

If Maevius scribble in Apollo's spite, 

There are, who judge still worse than he can write. 

Some have at first for wits, then poets, passed, 
Turned critics next, and proved plain fools at last. 
Some neither can for wits nor critics pass, 
As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass. 

Those half-learned witlings, numerous in our isle, 40 

As half-formed insects on the banks of Nile ; 
Unfinished things, one knows not what to call, 
Their generation's so equivocal : 
To tell them would a hundred tongues require, 
Or one vain wit's, that might a hundred tire. 

But you, who seek to give and merit fame, 
And justly bear a critic's noble name. 
Be sure yourself and your own reach to know. 
How far your genius, taste, and learning, go ; 
Launch not beyond your depth, but be discreet, 5° 

And mark that point where sense and dulness meet. 

Nature to all things fixed the limits fit. 
And wisely curbed proud man's pretending wit. 
As on the land while here the ocean gains, 
In other parts it leaves wide sandy plains ; 
Thus in the soul while memory prevails, 
The solid power of understanding fails. 
Where beams of warm imagination play, 
The memory's soft figures melt away. 

One science only will one genius fit ; 60 

So vast is art, so narrow human wit : 
Not only bounded to peculiar arts, 
But oft in those confined to single parts. 
Like kings, we lose the conquests gained before. 
By vain ambition still to make them more : 
Each might his several province well command, 
Would all but stoop to what they understand. 

First follow nature, and your judgment frame 
By her just standard, which is still the same : 
Unerring nature, still divinely bright, 7° 

One clear, unchanged, and universal light. 



394 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Life, force, and beauty, must to all impart, 

At once the source, and end, and test of art. 

Art from that fund each just supply provides ; 

Works without show, and without pomp presides : 

In some fair body thus the informing soul 

With spirits feeds, with vigor fills the whole, 

Each motion guides, and every nerve sustains ; 

Itself unseen, but in the effects remains. 

Some, to whom Heaven in wit has been profuse, 80 

Want as much more, to turn it to its use ; 

For wit and judgment often are at strife, 

Though meant each other's aid, like man and wife. 

'Tis more to guide, than spur the muse's steed ; 

Restrain his fury, than provoke his speed ; 

The winged courser, like a generous horse. 

Shows most true metal when you check his course. 

Those rules, of old discovered, not devised, 
Are nature still, but nature methodized ; 

Nature, like liberty, is but restrained 9° 

By the same laws which first herself ordained. 

Hear how learn'd Greece her useful rules indites. 
When to repress, and when indulge our flights. 
High on Parnassus' top her sons she showed. 
And pointed out those arduous paths they trod ; 
Held from afar, aloft, the immortal prize. 
And urged the rest by equal steps to rise. 
Just precepts thus from great examples given, 
She drew from them what they derived from Heaven. 
The generous critic fanned the poet's fire, 100 

And taught the world with reason to admire. 
Then criticism the muse's handmaid proved, • 
To dress her charms, and make her more beloved : 
But following wits from that intention strayed, 
Who could not win the mistress, wooed the maid ; 
Against the poets their own arms they turned. 
Sure to hate most the men from whom they learned. 
So modern 'pothecaries, taught the art 
By doctors' bills, to play the doctor's part, 



A AT ESS A Y ON CRITICISM. 395 

Bold in the practice of mistaken rules, no 

Prescribe, apply, and call their masters fools. 

Some on the leaves of ancient authors prey, 

Nor time nor moths e'er spoil so much as they. 

Some dryly plain, without invention's aid, 

Write dull receipts how poems may be made. 

These leave the sense, their learning to display. 

And those explain the meaning quite away. 

You, then, whose judgment the right course would steer, 
Know well each ancient's proper character ; 

His fable, subject, scope in every page ; 120 

Religion, country, genius of his age : 
Without all these at once before your eyes, 
Cavil you may, but never criticise. 
Be Homer's works your study and delight. 
Read them by day, and meditate by night ; 
Thence form your judgment, thence your maxims bring, 
And trace the muses upward to their spring. 
Still, with itself compared, his text peruse ; 
And let your comment be the Mantuan Muse. 

When first young Maro, in his boundless mind, 130 

A work to outlast immortal Rome designed. 
Perhaps he seemed above the critic's law. 
And but from nature's fountain scorned to draw : 
But when to examine every part he came. 
Nature and Homer were, he found, the same. 
Convinced, amazed, he checks the bold design : 
And rules as strict his labored work confine, 
As if the Stagirite o'erlooked each line. 
Learn hence for ancient rules a just esteem ; 
To copy nature is to copy them. 140 

Some beauties yet no precepts can declare, 
For there's a happiness as well as care. 
Music resembles poetry : in each 
Are nameless graces which no methods teach. 
And which a master-hand alone can reach. 
If, where the rules not far enough extend 
(Since rules were made but to promote their end), 



39^ ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Some lucky license answer to the full 

The intent proposed, that license is a rule. 

Thus Pegasus, a nearer way to take, 150 

May boldly deviate from the common track. 

Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend, 

And rise to faults true critics dare not mend ; 

From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part, 

And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art, 

Which, without passing through the judgment, gains 

The heart, and all its end at once attains. 

In prospects, thus, some objects please our eyes, 

Which out of nature's common order rise. 

The shapeless rock or hanging precipice. 160 

But though the ancients thus their rules invade 

(As kings dispense with laws themselves have made). 

Moderns, beware ! or if you must offend 

Against the precept, ne'er transgress its end ; 

Let it be seldom, and compelled by need ; 

And have, at least, their precedent to plead. 

The critic else proceeds without remorse. 

Seizes your fame, and puts his laws in force. 

I know there are, to whose presumptuous thoughts 
Those freer beauties, even in them, seem faults. 17° 

Some figures monstrous and misshaped appear, 
Considered singly, or beheld too near. 
Which, but proportioned to their light, or place, 
Due distance reconciles to form and grace. 
A prudent chief not always must display 
His powers in equal ranks and fair array, 
But with the occasion and the place comply, 
Conceal his force, nay, seem sometimes to fly. 
Those oft are stratagems which errors seem, 
Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream. 180 

Still green with bays each ancient altar stands, 
Above the reach of sacrilegious hands ; 
Secure from flames, from envy's fiercer rage, 
Destructive war, and all-involving age. 
See, from each clime the learn'd their incense brine: ; 



ajv essay on criticism. 397 

Hear, in all tongues consenting Paeans ring ! 

In praise so just let every voice be joined, 

And fill the general chorus of mankind. 

Hail ! bards triumphant ! born in happier days; 

Immortal heirs of universal praise ! 190 

Whose honors with increase of ages grow, 

As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow ; 

Nations unborn your mighty names shall sound, 

And worlds applaud, that must not yet be found ! 

Oh may some spark of your celestial fire, 

The last, the meanest of your sons inspire, 

(That, on weak wings, from far pursues your flights. 

Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes). 

To teach vain wits a science little known. 

To admire superior sense, and doubt their own ! 200 

PART II. 

Of all the causes which conspire to blind 
Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind, 
What the weak head with strongest bias rules, 
Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools. 
Whatever nature has in worth denied. 
She gives in large recruits of needful pride ; 
For as in bodies, thus in souls, we find 
What wants in blood and spirits, swelled with wind : 
Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defence, 
And fills up all the mighty void of sense. 210 

If once right reason drives that cloud away. 
Truth breaks upon us with resistless day. 
Trust not yourself ; but your defects to know, 
Make use of every friend — and every foe. 

A little learning is a dangerous thing ; 
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring: 
There, shallow draughts intoxicate the brain. 
And drinking largely sobers us again. 
Fired at first sight with what the muse imparts. 
In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts, 220 



398 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

While from the bounded' level of our mind, 

Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind ; 

But, more advanced, behold, with strange surprise, 

New distant scenes of endless science rise ! 

So, pleased at first the towering Alps we try, 

Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky. 

The eternal snows appear already passed. 

And the first clouds and mountains seem the last : 

But, those attained, we tremble to survey 

The growing labors of the lengthened way, 230 

The increasing prospect tires our wandering eyes, 

Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise ! 

A perfect judge will read each work of wit 
With the same spirit that its author writ : 
Survey the whole, nor seek slight faults to find 
Where nature moves, and rapture warms the mind ; 
Nor lose, for that malignant dull delight. 
The generous pleasure to be charmed with wit. 
But, in such lays as neither ebb nor flow, 

Correctly cold, and regularly low, 240 

That, shunning faults, one quiet tenor keep ; 
We cannot blame indeed — but we may sleep. 
In wit, as nature, what affects our hearts 
Is not the exactness of peculiar parts ; 
'Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call. 
But the joint force and full result of all. 
Thus, when we view some well-proportioned dome 
(The world's just wonder, and even thine, O Rome !), 
No single parts unequally surprise. 

All comes united to the admiring eyes ; 250 

No monstrous height, or breadth, or length, appear; 
The whole at once is bold, and regular. 

Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see. 
Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be. 
In every work regard the writer's end. 
Since none can compass more than they intend ; 
And if the means be just, the conduct true, 
Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due. 



A AT ESSAY ON CRITICISM. 399 

As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit, 

To avoid great errors, must the less commit : 260 

Neglect the rules each verbal critic lays. 

For not to know some trifles is a praise. 

Most critics, fond of some subservient art. 

Still make the whole depend upon a part : 

They talk of principles, but notions prize, 

And all to one loved folly sacrifice. 

Once on a time. La Mancha's knight, they say, 
A certain bard encountering on the way, 
Discoursed in terms as just, with looks as sage, 
As e'er could Dennis, of the Grecian stage ; 270 

Concluding all were desperate sots and fools, 
Who durst depart from Aristotle's rules. 
Our author, happy in a judge so nice. 
Produced his play, and begged the knight's advice ; 
Made him observe the subject and the plot. 
The manners, passions, unities ; what not ? 
All which, exact to rule, were brought about. 
Were but a combat in the lists left out. 
"What! leave the combat out ? " exclaims the knight. 
"Yes, or we must renounce the Stagirite." 280 

" Not so, by heaven ! " (he answers in a rage) 
" Knights, squires, and steeds must enter on the stage." 
" So vast a throng the stage can ne'er contain." 
" Then build a new, or act it in a plain." 

Thus critics of less judgment than caprice, 
Curious, not knowing, not exact, but nice. 
Form short ideas ; and offend in arts 
(As most in manners) by a love to parts. 

Some to conceit alone their taste confine, 
And glittering thoughts struck out at every line ; 290 

Pleased with a work where nothing's just or fit ; 
One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit. 
Poets, like painters, thus, unskilled to trace 
The naked nature and the living grace. 
With gold and jewels cover every part, 
And hide with ornaments their want of art. 



400 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

True wit is nature to advantage dressed ; 

What oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed ; 

Something, whose truth convinced at sight we find, 

That gives us back the image of our mind. 300 

As shades more sweetly recommend the light, 

So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit. 

For works may have more wit than does them good, 

As bodies perish through excess of blood. 

Others for language all their care express. 
And value books, as women men, for dress: 
Their praise is still — '■ the style is excellent ; " 
The sense, they humbly take upon content. 
Words are like leaves ; and, where they most abound, 
Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found : 310 

False eloquence, like the prismatic glass, 
Its gaudy colors spreads on every place ; 
The face of nature we no more survey. 
All glares alike, without distinction gay : 
But true expression, like the unchanging sun, 
Clears and improves whate"er it shines upon ; 
It gilds all objects, but it alters none. 
Expression is the dress of thought, and still 
Appears more decent, as more suitable ; 

A vile conceit, in pompous words expressed, 320 

Is like a clown in regal purple dressed : 
For different styles with different subjects sort, 
As several garbs with country, town, and court. 
Some by old words to fame have made pretence, 
Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their sense ; 
Such labored nothings, in so strange a style, 
Amaze the unlearned, and make the learned smile. 
Unlucky, as Fungoso in the play, 
These sparks with awkward vanity display 

What the fine gentleman wore yesterday ; zio 

And but so mimic ancient wits at best. 
As apes our grandsires in their doublets dressed. 
In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold, 
Alike fantastic if too new or old. 



AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM. 4OI 

Be not the first by whom the new are tried, 
Nor yet the last to lay the old aside. 

But most by numbers judge a poet's song, 
And smooth or rough, with them, is right or wrong ; 
In the bright muse though thousand charms conspire. 
Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire ; 34° 

Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear. 
Not mend their minds ; as some to church repair, 
Not for the doctrine, but the music there. 
These equal syllables alone require, 
Though oft the ear the open vowels tire ; 
While expletives their feeble aid do join 
And ten low words oft creep in one dull line ; 
While they ring round the same unvaried chimes, 
With sure returns of still expected rhymes ; 

Where'er you find " the cooling western breeze," 35° 

In the next line, it " whispers through the trees : " 
If crystal streams " with pleasing murmurs creep," 
The readers threatened (not in vain) with " sleep : " 
Then, at the last and only couplet fraught 
With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, 
A needless Alexandrine ends the song. 
That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. 

Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know 
What's roundly smooth or languishingly slow ; 
And praise the easy vigor of a line, 360 

Where Denham's strength, and Waller's sweetness join. 
True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, 
As those move easiest who have learned to dance. 
'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence. 
The sound must seem an echo to the sense. 
Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows. 
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows ; 
But when loud surges lash the sounding shore. 
The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar : 
When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, zio 

The line, too, labors, and the words move slow ; 
Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain, 



402 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Flies o'er the unbending corn, and skims along the main. 

Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise, 

And bid alternate passions fall and rise ! 

While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove 

Now burns with glory, and then melts with love ; 

Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow. 

Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow : 

Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found, 38° 

And the world's victor stood subdued by sound ! 

The power of music all oar hearts allow. 

And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now. 

Avoid extremes ; and shun the fault of such, 
Who still are pleased too little or too much. 
At every trifle scorn to take offence. 
That always shows great pride, or little sense ; 
Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best, 
Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest. 

Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move ; 39° 

For fools admire, but men of sense approve : 
As things seem large which we through mist descry, 
Dulness is ever apt to magnify. 

Some foreign writers, some our own despise 5 
The ancients only, or the moderns prize. 
Thus wit, like faith, by each man is applied 
To one small sect, and all are damned beside. 
Meanly they seek the blessing to confine, 
And force that sun but on a part to shine. 

Which not alone the southern wit sublimes, 400 

But ripens spirits in cold northern climes ; 
Which from the first has shone on ages past, 
Enlights the present, and shall warm the last; 
Though each may feel increases and decays, 
And see now clearer and now darker days. 
Regard not then if wit be old or new. 
But blame the false, and value still the true. 

Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own, 
But catch the spreading notion of the town ; 
They reason and conclude by precedent, 41° 



AjV essay on criticism. 403 

And own stale nonsense which they ne'er invent. 

Some judge of authors' names, not works, and then 

Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men. 

Of all this servile herd, the worst is he 

That in proud dulness joins with quality. 

A constant critic at the great man's board. 

To fetch and carry nonsense for my lord. 

What woful stuff this madrigal would be, 

In some starved hackney sonneteer, or me ! 

But let a lord once own the happy lines, 420 

How the wit brightens ! how the style refines ! 

Before his sacred name flies every fault, 

And each exalted stanza teems with thought ! 

The vulgar thus through imitation err ; 
As oft the learn'd by being singular : 
So much they scorn the crowd, that if the throng 
By chance go right, they purposely go wrong : 
So schismatics the plain believers quit. 
And are but damned for having too much wit. 
Some praise at morning what they blame at night ; 430 

But always think the last opinion right. 
A muse by these is like a mistress used, 
This hour she's idolized, the next abused ; 
While their weak heads, like towns unfortified, 
'Twixt sense and nonsense daily change their side. 
Ask them the cause ; they're wiser still they say ; 
And still to-morrow's wiser than to-day. 
We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow ; 
Our wiser sons, no doubt, will think us so. 

Once school-divines this zealous isle o'erspread. 440 

W^ho knew most sentences was deepest read ; 
Faith, Gospel, all, seem'd made to be disputed, 
And none had sense enough to be confuted: 
Scotists and Thomists now in peace remain. 
Amidst their kindred cobwebs in Duck Lane. 
If faith itself has different dresses worn. 
What wonder modes in wit should take their turn ,? 
Oft, leaving; what is natural and fit, 



404 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

The current folly proves the ready wit ; 

And authors think their reputation safe, 450 

Which lives as long as fools are pleased to laugh. 

Some valuing those of their own side or mind, 
Still make themselves the measure of mankind : 
Fondly we think we honor merit then, 
When we but praise ourselves in other men. 
Parties in wit attend on those of state, 
And public faction doubles private hate. 
Pride, malice, folly, against Dryden rose. 
In various shapes of parsons, critics, beaux ; 
But sense survived, when merry jests were past ; 460 

For rising merit Avill buoy up at last. 
Might he return, and bless once more our eyes, 
New Blackmores and new Millbourns must arise : 
Nay, should great Homer lift his awful head, 
Zoilus again would start up from the dead. 
Envy will merit, as its shade, pursue ; 
But like a shadow, proves the substance true : 
For envied wit, like Sol eclipsed, makes known 
The opposing body's grossness, not its own. 
When first that sun too powerful beams displays, 47° 

It draws up vapors which obscure its rays ; 
But even those clouds at last adorn its way, 
Reflect new glories, and augment the day. 

Be thou the first true merit to befriend ; 
His praise is lost who stays till all commend. 
Short is the date, alas ! of modern rhymes, 
And 'tis but just to let them live betimes. 
No longer now that golden age appears, 
When patriarch-wits survived a thousand years : 
Now length of fame (our second life) is lost, 480 

And bare threescore is all ev'n that can boast ; 
Our sons their fathers' failing language see, 
And such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be. 
So when the faithful pencil has designed 
Some bright idea of the master's mind, 
Where a new world leaps out at his command, 



AN ESS A Y ON CRITICISM. 



405 



And ready nature waits upon his hand ; 

When the ripe colors soften and unite, 

And sweetly melt into just shade and light ; 

When mellowing years their full perfection give, 490 

And each bold figure just begins to live, 

The treacherous colors the fair art betray. 

And all the bright creation fades away ! 

Unhappy wit, like most mistaken things, 
Atones not for that envy which it brings. 
In youth alone its empty praise we boast, 
But soon the short-lived vanity is lost : 
Like some fair flower the early spring supplies, 
That gayly blooms, but ev'n in blooming dies. 
What is this wit, which must our cares employ .? 5°° 

The owner's wife, that other men enjoy ; 
Then most our trouble still when most admired. 
And still the more we give, the more required ; 
Whose fame with pains we guard, but lose with ease, 
Sure some to vex, but never all to please ; 
'Tis what the vicious fear, the virtuous shun. 
By fools 'tis hated, and by knaves undone ! 

If wit so much from ignorance undergo, • 

Ah ! let not learning too commence its foe ! 
Of old, those met rewards who could excel, 510 

And such were praised who but endeavored well : 
Though triumphs were to generals only due. 
Crowns were reserved to grace the soldiers too. 
Now they who reach Parnassus' lofty crown, 
Employ their pains to spurn some others down ; 
And, while self-love each jealous writer rules. 
Contending wits become the sport of fools : 
But still the worst with most regret commend. 
For each ill author is as bad a friend. 

To what base ends, and by what abject ways, 520 

Are mortals urged, through sacred lust of praise ! 
Ah, ne'er so dire a thirst of glory boast, 
Nor in the critic let the man be lost. 



406 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Good-nature and good sense must ever join; 
To err is human, to forgive, divine. 

But if in noble minds some dregs remain, 
Not yet purged off, of spleen and sour disdain ; 
Discharge that rage on more provoking crimes. 
Nor fear a dearth in these flagitious times. 

No pardon vile obscenity should find, 530 

Though wit and art conspire to move your mind ; 
But dulness with obscenity must prove 
As shameful sure as impotence in love. 
In the fat age of pleasure, wealth, and ease, 
Sprung the rank weed, and thrived with large increase: 
When love was all an easy monarch's care ; 
Seldom at council, never in a war : 
Jilts ruled the state, and statesmen farces writ ; 
Nay, wits had pensions, and young lords had wit : 
The fair sat panting at a courtier's play, 540 

And not a mask went unimproved away : 
The modest fan was lifted up no more, 
And virgins smiled at what they blushed before. 
The following license of a foreign reign, 
^ Did all the dregs of bold Socinus drain ; 
Then unbelieving priests reformed the nation, 
And taught more pleasant methods of salvation ; 
Where Heaven's free subjects might their rights dispute, 
Lest God himself should seem too absolute : 
Pulpits their sacred satire learned to spare, 55° 

And vice admired to find a flatterer there ! 
Encouraged thus, wit's Titans braved the skies, 
And the press groaned with licensed blasphemies. 

These monsters, critics ! with your darts engage, 
Here point your thunder, and exhaust your rage ! 
Yet shun their fault, who, scandalously nice. 
Will needs mistake an author into vice ; 
All seems infected that the infected spy, 
As all looks yellow to the jaundiced eye. 



ajv essay on criticism. 407 

PART III. 

Learn, then, what morals critics ought to show. 560 

For 'tis but half a judge's task, to know. 
'Tis not enough, taste, judgment, learning, join ; 
In all you speak, let truth and candor shine : 
That not alone what to your sense is due 
All may allow ; but seek your friendship too. 

Be silent always, when you doubt your sense ; 
And speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence : 
Some positive, persisting fops we know. 
Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so ; 
But you, with pleasure, own your errors past, 570 

And make each day a critique on the last. 

'Tis not enough your counsel still be true ; 
Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do ; 
Men must be taught as if you taught them not. 
And things unknown proposed as things forgot. 
Without good breeding truth is disapproved ; 
That only makes superior sense beloved. 

Be niggards of advice on no pretence ; 
For the worst avarice is that of sense. 

With mean complacence, ne'er betray your trust, 5^° 

Nor be so civil as to prove unjust. 
Fear not the anger of the wise to raise ., 
Those best can bear reproof who merit praise. 

'Twere well might critics still this freedom take, 
But Appius reddens at each word you speak, 
And stares, -tremendous, with a threatening eye, 
Like some fierce tyrant in old tapestry. 
Fear most to tax an honorable fool. 
Whose right it is, uncensured, to be dull ^ 

Such, without wit, are poets when they please, 59° 

As, without learning, they can take degrees. 
Leave dangerous truths to unsuccessful satires, 
And flattery to fulsome dedicators. 
Whom, when they praise, the world believes no more, 
Than when they promise to give scribbling o'er. 



408 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

'Tis best sometimes your censure to restrain, 
And charitably let the dull be vain : 
Your silence there is better than your spite, 
For who can rail so long as they can write ? 

Still humming on, their drowsy course they keep, 600 

And, lashed so long, like tops, are lashed asleep. 
False steps but help them to renew the race. 
As, after stumbling, jades will mend their pace. 
What crowds of these, impenitently bold. 
In sounds and jingling syllables grown old, 
Still run on poets in a raging vein. 
Even to the dregs and squeezing of the brain ; 
Strain out the last dull droppings of their sense, 
And rhyme with all the rage of impotence ! 

Such shameless bards we have ; and yet, 'tis true, 610 

There are as mad, abandoned critics, too. 
The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read. 
With loads of learned lumber in his head. 
With his own tongue still edifies his ears. 
And always listening to himself appears. 
All books he reads, and all he reads assails. 
From Dryden's Fables down to Durfey's Tales. 
With him most authors steal their works, or buy ; 
Garth did not write his own Dispensary. 

Name a new play, and he's the poet's friend, 620 

Nay, showed h-is faults — but when would poets mend? 
No place so sacred from such fops is barred. 
Nor is Paul's Church more safe than Paul's Churchyard : 
Nay, fly to altars ; there they'll talk you dead ; • 
For fools rush in where angels fear to tread. 
Distrustful sense with modest caution speaks. 
It still looks home, and short excursions makes; 
But rattling nonsense in full volleys breaks, 
And, never shocked, and never turned aside, 
Bursts out, resistless, with a thundering tide. 630 

But where's the man who counsel can bestow. 
Still pleased to teach, and yet not proud to know ? 
Unbiassed, or by favor, or in spite ; 



AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM. 409 

Not dully prepossessed, nor blindly right ; 

Though learn'd, well-bred ; and though well-bred, sincere ; 

Modestly bold, and humanly severe ; 

Who to a friend his faults can freely show, 

And gladly praise the merit of a foe ? 

Blessed with a taste exact, yet unconfined ; 

A knowledge both of books and human kind ; 640 

Generous converse ; a soul exempt from pride ; 

And love to praise, with reason on his side ? 

Such once were critics : such the happy few, 
Athens and Rome in better ages knew. 
The mighty Stagirite first left the shore, 
Spread all his sails, and durst the deeps explore ', 
He steered securely, and discovered far, 
Led by the light of th® Maeonian star. 
Poets, a race long unconfined and free, 

Still fond and proud of savage liberty, 650 

Received his laws ; and stood convinced 'twas fit, 
Who conquered nature, should preside o'er wit. 

Horace still charms with graceful negligence, 
And without method talks us into sense ; 
Will, like a friend, familiarly convey 
The truest notions in the easiest way. 
He who, supreme in judgment as in wit, 
Might boldly censure, as he boldly writ. 
Yet judged with coolness, though he sung with fire ; 
His precepts teach but what his works inspire. 660 

Our critics take a contrary extreme. 
They judge with fury, but they write with phlegm : 
Nor suffers Horace more in wrong translations 
By wits, than critics in as wrong quotations. 

See Dionysius Homer's thoughts refine, 
And call new beauties forth from every line ! 

Fancy and art in gay Petronius please, 
The scholar's learning, with the courtier's ease. 

In grave Ouintilian's copious work, we find 
The justest rules and clearest method joined : 670 

Thus useful arms in magazines we place, 



4IO EXGLISH LITERATURE. 

All ranged in order, and disposed with grace. 
But less to please the eye. than arm the hand. 
Still fit for use. and ready at command. 

Thee, bold Longinus I all the Nine inspire. 
And bless their critic with a poet's fire. 
An ardent judge, who. zealous in his trust. 
With warmth gives sentence, yet is always just : 
Whose own example strengthens all his laws : 
And is himself that great sublime he draws. ■ 6So 

Thus long succeeding critics justly reigned. 
License repressed, and useful laws ordained. 
Learning and Rome alike in empire grew : 
And arts still followed where her eagles flew : 
From the same foes, at last, both felt their doom. 
And the same age saw learning fall, and Rome. 
With t}T-ann5' then superstition joined. 
As that the body, this enslaved the mind : 
Much was believed, but little understood. 

And to be dull was construed to be good : 690 

A second deluge learning thus o'errun, 
^"_ :d the monks finished what the Goths begun. 

At length Erasmus, that great injured name 
(The crlon.- of the priesthood, and the shame !) 
Stenii 2d the wild ton-ent of a barbarous age. 
And dr ve those holy ^"andals off the stage. 

But . 2e 1 each muse, in Leo's golden days. 
Starts fro-n her trance, and trims her withered bays ; 
Rome's ancient genius, o'er its ruins spread. 

Shakes off the dust, and rears his reverent head. 70° 

Then sculp 'ure and her sister arts revive : 
Stones leaped to form, and rocks began to live ; 
With sweeter notes each rising temple rung ; 
A Raphael painted, and a Vida sung. 
Immortal Vida ! on whose honored brow 
The poet's ba^s. and critic's i\y grow : 
Cremona now shall ever boast thv name. 
As next in place to Mantua, next in fame ! 

But soon by impious arms from Latium chased. 



AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM. 4I I 

Their ancient bounds the banished muses passed. 71° 

Thence arts o'er all the northern world advance, 

But critic-learning flourished most in France ; 

The rules a nation born to serve, obeys ; 

And Boileau still in right of Horace sways. 

But we, brave Britons, foreign laws despised, 

And kept unconquered and uncivilized ; 

Fierce for the liberties of wit, and bold, 

We still defied the Romans, as of old. 

Yet some there were, among the sounder few 

Of those who less presumed and better knew, 720 

Who durst assert the juster ancient cause. 

And here restored wit's fundamental laws. 

Such was the muse, whose rule and practice tell 

" Nature's chief masterpiece is writing well." 

Such was Roscommon, not more learned than good, 

With manners generous as his noble blood ; 

To him the wit of Greece and Rome was known, 

And every author's merit, but his own. 

Such late was Walsh — the muse's judge and friend. 

Who justly knew to blame or to commend ; 73° 

To failings mild, but zealous for desert ; 

The clearest head, and the sincerest heart. 

This humble praise, lamented shade ! receive, 

This praise at least a grateful muse may give : 

The muse, whose early voice you taught to sing. 

Prescribed her heights, and pruned her tender wing, 

(Her guide now lost) no more attempts to rise. 

But in low numbers short excursions tries ; 

Content, if hence the unlearned their wants may view, 

The learned reflect on what before they knew: 74° 

Careless of censure, nor too fond of fame : 

Still pleased to praise, yet not afraid to blame ; 

Averse alike to flatter, or offend ; 

Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend. 



412 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



NOTES TO ESSAY ON CRITICISM. 

( The 7ui77ibers refer to lines. ) 

4. Sense = understanding, judgment. 

15. Who has Slick for its antecedent. The meaning is, Let those who 
excel teach others. 

17. Wit = genius. As we shall see, wii \s used in a variety of mean- 
ings in the poem. 

20. Most qualifies pef'sous understood. The full form of expression 
would be, "We shall find (that) most (persons) have," etc. 

26. Schools = different systems of philosophy, science, and theology. 

34. Mavius = an insignificant poet of the Augustan age, who attacked 
the writings of Virgil and Horace. He owes the preservation of his name to 
the fact that these two great poets made him a subject of ridicule. — Apollo 
was the president and protector of the Muses. 

35. Who has those understood as its antecedent. "There are (those) 
who judge," etc. 

36. IVzts = men' of learning or genius. 

43. Their generatioiiy etc. = their formation is so doubtful, uncertain. 
A reference to the belief that insects were generated by the mud of the Nile. 

52. Fit = suitable, proper. 

53. Wit = intellect, mind. 

66. Several = separate, particular. 

72. I.i/e, force, and beauty are in the objective case after must ijnpart. 

73. This line is in apposition with nature. 

76. Informing- = imbuing and actuating with vitality. 

80. Wit = genius; but in the next line, judgment. 

84! ' Tis more to guide = it is more important to guide. 

86. Winged courser = Pegasus, a winged horse of the Muses. 

92. Indites = composes, produces. 

94. Parnassus = a mountain in Greece, celebrated in mythology as 
sacred to Apollo and the Muses. 

97. Equal steps = like or corresponding steps. 

109. Bills = prescriptions. 

120, Fable =- plot. 



NOTES TO ESSAY ON CRITICISM. 413 

124. Homer = the author of the " Iliad,- ' and the greatest epic poet of 
antiquity. Seven Grecian cities contended for the honor of having given him 
birth. 

129. Mantuan Muse — Virgil, who was born near. Mantua, 70 B.C. 
After Homer, the greatest poet of antiquity. His full name was Publius Vir- 
gilius Maro, the latter part of which appears in the next line. It is said that 
before writing the "^neid," he contemplated a poem on Alban and Roman 
affairs, but found the subject beyond his powers. 

133. Biit — except. 

138. Stagirite = Aristotle. He was born at Stagira, a town in Mace- 
donia; hence the name Stagirite. 

142. Happiness = fortuitous elegance or felicity of expression. 

1 58. Prcjr/^^/^ = landscapes. 

183. Secure from flames, etc. — "The poet here alludes to the four 
principal causes of the ravage among ancient writings. The destruction of 
the Alexandrine and Palatine libraries hyflre, the fiercer rage of Zoihis, Alce- 
vuis^i and their followers, against wit; the irruption of the Barbarians into 
the empire; and the long reign of ignorance and superstition in the cloisters." 
— Warton. 

186. Fa;ans — a song of rejoicing, among the ancients, in honor of 
Apollo. 

216. FieriaH= pertaining to the Muses. From Mount Pierus, in Thes- 
saly, sacred to the Muses. 

218. Drinking largely \s the subject of sobers. 

237. Thai jualigant dull delight, that is, of seeking to find slight faults. 

248. Even thine, O Rome ! = the dome of St. Peter's, designed by 
Michael Angelo. 

265. Amotions — judgments, opinions. 

267. La Mancha 's Knight =■ Don Quixote, the hero of a work written 
by Cervantes, a Spanish author, in 1605. 

270. Dennis = a mediocre author, born in 1657. For an account of his 
literary quarrels, see the sketch of Pope. 

286. Curious =^^\^c\x\\. to please. — A'/V^ = over-scrupulous, hard to 
please. 

289. Conceit ^^ odd, fanciful notion, affected conception. 

308. Content = acquiescence without examination. 

322. Sort =suit, fit. 

328. Fungoso = a character in one of Ben Jonson's plays, who assumed 
the dress and tried to pass himself off for another. 

329. Sparks = gay, showy men. 
337. Most = most persons or critics. 
344. These = these persons. 



414 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

356. Alexandrine = ?i verse consisting of twelve syllables; so called 
from a French poem on the life of Alexander written in that measure. The 
next line is an Alexandrine. 

361. Sir John Denham was born at Dublin in 161 5, and died in 1668. 
His poems contain here and there an expression of considerable force. — 
Edmund Waller was born in 1606 and died in 1687. See reference to Waller 
in preceding pages. 

366. Zepkvr = z\x\ci\y the west wind; but poetically, any soft, gentle 
breeze. 

370. Ajax — a hero of the Trojan war, represented by Homer as, next 
to Achilles, the bravest and handsomest of the Greeks. 

372. Camilla = Queen of the Volscians, an army of whom she led to 
battle against ^neas^ She was so remarkable for her swiftness that she is 
described by the poets as flying over the corn without bending the stalks, and 
skimming over the surface of the water without wetting her feet. 

374, Tijnotheus = a celebrated musician of Thebes in Boeotia. Invited 
to attend the nuptials of Alexander the Great, he is said to have animated 
that monarch in so powerful a degree that he started up and seized his 
arms. Dryden made use of the incident in his celebrated ode, " Alexander's 
Feast." 

376. Son of Libyan Jove = a title assumed by Alexander. 

394. Some is the subject of despise understood. " Some (despise) 
foreign waiters." 

400. Subli?nes = exalts. 

404. Each qualifies a^^e understood. 

415. Quality =high rank, superior birth or station. 

418. Madrigal = a short lyrical poem, adapted to the quaint and terse 
expression of some pleasant thought, generally on the subject of love. 

424. The vulgar = the common people. 

440. School-divines = school-men; that is, philosophers and divines of 
the Middle Ages, who adopted the principles of Aristotle, and spent much 
time on points of abstract speculation, sometimes ridiculous in character. 

441. Sentences = passages from recognized authorities in the church. 

444. Scotis/s = followers of Duns Scotus, one of the most famous school- 
men of the fourteenth century. He taught at Oxford and Paris. He was 
distinguished for the zeal and ability with which he defended the immaculate 
conception of the Virgin — a doctrine that w^as, in 1854, declared by papal 
authority to be a necessary article of the Roman Catholic faith. At the 
Renaissance the Scotists opposed the new learning, and added the word dunce, 
that is, a Dunsmaji, to our language. — Thomists = followers of Thomas 
Aquinas, one of the ablest school-men of the thirteenth centur}'. He taught 
at Paris, Rome, Bologna, and Pisa. He denied the immaculate conception. 



jvotes to essay oa" criticism 415 

The works of these authors abounded, not in useful knowledge, but in fine- 
spun theories and argumentation. 

445. Duck Lane =a place in London where old books were sold. 

447. " What uwnder [is it that] modes in wit," etc. 

449. Ready = keen, prompt. Understand to be ?ii\.cx proves. 

459. Parsons, critics^ beaux. — Referring to Jeremy Collier, and the 
Duke of Buckingham. 

463. Blackmores = Sir Richard Blackmore, one of the court physicians 
in the reigns of William III. and Anne, and characterized " as the most volu- 
minous and heavy poetaster of his own or any other age." — Jllilibourn = Rev. 
Luke Millbourn, who criticised Dryden with much justice. 

465. Zoilus = a grammarian and sophist of Amphipolis, who rendered 
himself known by his severe criticisms on the poems of Homer, for which he 
received the nickname, " Chastiser of Homer." See note on line 183. 

479. Patriarch-wits = the antediluvians. 

495. ^r/7/^j = causes. 

496. Its refers to wit or genius. 

509. Commence = begin or appear to be. 

536. Easy monarch = Charles H. 

545. Socimis. — Faustus and Lselius Socinus were Italian theologians of 
the sixteenth century, who denied the Trinity, the deity of Christ, the person- 
ality of the devil, the native and total depravity of man, the vicarious atone- 
ment, and the eternity of future punishment. 

552. Titans = fabled giants of ancient mythology, who made war against 
the gods. 

564. Sense = judgment. The same also in line 566. 

585. Appius = Dennis. See sketch of Pope for an account of the 
literary quarrel of the two poets. 

599. So lo)ig = to such an extent. 

606. '"'■ Rtin 071 [as] /<9<f/i'," etc. 

617. Diirfey = Thomas D'Urfey, a wr.iter of plays and poems in the 
reign of Charles II., with whom he was a favorite for his wit, liveliness, and 
songs. He is best remembered for his collection of songs, entitled " Pills to 
Purge Melancholy," the tales here referred to by Pope. 

619. Garth = Sir Samuel Garth, an eminent physician and poet of 
some reputation, born in 1660. His professional skill was associated with 
great conversational powers. His best-known work is "The Dispensary," a 
poetical satire on the apothecaries and those physicians who sided with them 
in opposing the project of giving medicine gratuitously to the sick poor. 

623. PaiiVs Churchyard ^^ headquarters of the London booksellers be- 
fore the great fire. 

645. Stagirite. — See note on line 138. 



41 6 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

648. Mivonian star = Homer, who is supposed by some to have been 
born in INIaeonia, a district in Asia Minor. Aristotle derived many of his 
elements of criticism from Homer. 

652. Who cojiqiiered nattire = Aristotle, the greatest naturalist of his 
day. He wrote a Natural History, Physics, and Astronomy, in addition to 
his metaphysical treatises. 

665. Dionyshis was a learned critic and rhetorician, as well as historian. 
He was born at Halicarnassus, about 50 B.C., but came to Rome in early 
manhood, where he spent the remainder of his life. Among his critical 
works the principal are Censura Veterum Scriptorum, Ai-s Rhetorica, 
and De Compositione Verborum, which are said to possess high literary 
merit. 

667. Fetronius = a Roman voluptuary at the court of Nero, whose prof- 
ligacy is said to have been of the most elegant description. He had charge of 
the royal entertainments. He is the author, it is believed, of a work entitled 
Petronii Arbitri Satyricon, which gives a horrible picture of the depravity of 
the times. 

669. Quintilian = a celebrated teacher of rhetoric and oratory at Rome. 
He was born in Spain in 40 A.D. His chief work, entitled De Instittitioiie 
Oratoria, is a complete system of rhetoric. He stood high in the favor of 
the Emperor Domitian. 

675. Longiiius = a Platonic philosopher and famous rhetorician, who 
was born, according to some, in Syria, and, according to others, in Athens, 
about 213 A.D. His knowledge was so extensive that he was called a " living 
library" and a " walking museum;" hence Pope speaks of him as inspired 
of all the nine ISIuses. He was probably the best critic of antiquity. The 
only work that has come down to us is a treatise " On the Sublime." 

692. Got/is = a powerful Germanic nation that had no small part in the 
destruction of the Roman Empire. 

693. Erasmus = a distinguished scholar of the period of the Reformation, 
He was born at Rotterdam in 1467. Pie became a monk, but afterwards was 
absolved from his monastic vows by the pope. He did much to promote the 
revival of learning. His best-known work is his Co//o(/?(?a, which contains a 
vigorous denunciation of monastic life, festivals, and pilgrimages. The best 
scholar, perhaps, of his day. 

696. Vandals = monks. The Vandals were a famous race of European 
barbarians, probably of Germanic, origin. They successively overran Gaul, 
Spain, and Italy. In 455 A.D. they plundered Rome; and the manner in 
which they mutilated and destroyed the works of art in the city has originated 
the term vandalism. 

697, Leo = Leo X., who reigned as pope from 1513 to 1521, He was 
a patron of learning and art, and his court was the meeting-point of all the 



NOTES TO ESSAY ON CRITICISM. 417 

scholars of Italy and the world. During his pontificate the Reformation 
began, which he at first described as " a squabble among the friars." 

704. Raphael wdiS born in 1483, and died in 1520. He is ranked almost 
by universal opinion as the greatest of painters. He was employed by Leo 
X., who kept his great powers constantly in exercise. The great frescoes of 
the Vatican are his work. — J'ida was a learned Latinist and profound 
scholar, as well as poet. He was born at Cremona, near Mantua, the birth- 
place of Virgil, in 1485. Among his best-known works is De Aj-te Foetica, 
to which the poet here refers. 

714. Boileaii = an illustrious French poet, born near Paris in 1636. As 
a sage critic, he exerted an immense influence upon French literature. Vol- 
taire pronounced him " the legislator of Parnassus." In 1674 he published 
D Art Poetiqiie, which Pope has imitated in the present poem. 

723. Such was the muse, etc. A reference to the Duke of Buckingham's 
" Essay on Poetry." 

725. Roscommon = the Earl of Roscommon, born in Ireland in 1634. 
He wrote an " Essay on Translated Verse," and rendered Horace's At's 
Poetica into English blank verse. 

729. Walsli = William Walsh, a poet, man of fashion, and member of 
Parliament. He was a friend of both Dryden and Pope. He published, in 
1691, a " Dialogue concerning W^omen," in prose. See the sketch of Pope 
for an account of their relationship. 



THE AGE OF JOHNSON, 



REPRESENTATIVE WRITERS. 

BURNS, GOLDSMITH, JOHNSON. 

OTHER PROMINENT WRITERS. 

Poets. — Akenside, Gray, Cowper. 

Historians. — Hume. Robertson. Gibbon. 

Orators. — Pitt, Burke, Sheridan. 



VI. 

AGE Of JOHNSON: 

1750- 1800. 

General Survey. — The age of Johnson inckides the 
second half of the eighteenth century. It is here named 
after the great hterary dictator simply as a matter of con- 
venience. While he was the centre of an influential liter- 
ary group for many years, and is the most prominent and 
picturesque literary figure of his time, other and mightier 
influences were giving a new tone to literature. 

In great measure Johnson bore the impress of the pre- 
ceding period. In his poetry he is coldly classical ; and 
in a part at least of his prose, he is an imitator of Addi- 
son. The real characteristic of this second half of the 
eighteenth century is transition. By the side of the 
literary forms and canons of the age of Pope, there arose 
a new kind of writing distinguished by a return to nature. 
Artificial poetry had already been carried to its utmost 
limits ; and if literature was to reach a higher excellence, 
it was obliged to assume a new form. And to this it was 
urged by the momentous social, political, and religious 
changes that took place, not only in England, but on the 
Continent and in America during the latter part of the 
century. 

In their onward course mankind made a marked ad- 
vance. In social and political relations the rights of men 

421 



422 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

were more clearly recognized, and the brotherhood of 
mankind began to affect existing customs and institu- 
tions. As in all great forward movements of the world, 
a variety of causes co-operated in bringing about great 
changes. Unwilling hands often played an important 
part. The stupidity and obstinacy of George III. and of 
some of his ministers hastened the formal declaration 
of those principles of liberty which mark a new era in 
civil government. 

A strong tendency of the age was crystallized in the 
Declaration of Independence. " We hold these truths to 
be self-evident," said the wise and courageous representa- 
tives of the American colonists, ''that all men are created 
equal ; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain 
unalienable rights ; that among these are life, liberty, and 
the pursuit of happiness ; that, to secure these rights, gov- 
ernments are instituted among men, deriving their just 
powers from the consent of the governed ; that, whenever 
any form of government becomes destructive of these 
ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it, 
and to institute a new government, laying its foundation 
on such principles, and organizing its powers in such form 
as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and 
happiness." This solemn declaration sounded the knell of 
absolutism in the world. It is a political gospel that is 
destined to leaven the whole lump. 

But how came the American colonists to a recognition 
of the weighty truths embodied in this declaration } They 
simply voiced the growing spirit of the age. The greater 
diffusion of knowledge had opened the eyes of men to a 
better perception of truth. The force of custom and 
prejudice was in a measure broken. The claims of superi- 



AGE OF JOHNSON. 423 

ority set up by privileged classes were seen to be baseless, 
and injustice and oppression in the state were discerned 
and denounced. 

In England there was a noteworthy advance in popular 
intelligence. Remarkable inventions in the mechanic arts 
placed new power in the hands of the producing classes. 
The use of coal in smelting iron ; the opening of canals 
throughout England; the invention of the spinning-jenny 
and power-loom ; the perfecting of the steam-engine with 
its wide application to manufacturing purposes — all this 
brought people together in large communities, greatly 
raised the average intelligence, and established the indus- 
trial supremacy of England. 

Printing-presses were set up in every town ; circulating 
libraries were opened ; newspapers were multiplied ; and 
monthly magazines and reviews fostered the general intel- 
ligence that called them into being. The proceedings of 
Parliament were regularly published, and naturally became 
the subject of discussion in every club-room, and at many 
a hearthstone. 

The principles of political economy, especially after the 
publication of Adam Smith's *' Wealth of Nations," re- 
ceived increased and more intelligent attention. 

The result of all this was inevitable ; men came to a 
clearer recognition of their interests and their rights. 

The moral and religious state of society showed marked 
improvement. Crossness gave way to decorum in life. 
Indecency was almost wholly banished from the stage and 
from literature. This happy change is illustrated in an 
incident told us by Sir Walter Scott. His grand-aunt 
assured him that, when led by curiosity to turn over the 
pages of a novel in which she had delighted in her youth. 



424 EXGLISH LITERATURE. 

she was astonished to find that, sitting alone at the age 
of eighty, she was unable to read without shame a book 
which sixty years before she had heard read out fur amuse- 
ment in large circles, consisting of the best society in 
London. 

This improved moral tone was not restricted to senti- 
ment. One of the noble features of this period was the 
active efforts to improve the condition of the unfortunate 
and the oppressed. The slave-trade, which Englishmen 
had long made a source of profitable commerce, was 
abolished. Hospitals were established. Howard, by his 
noble enthusiasm and incessant labors, secured a reform 
in prison discipline. Robert Raikes of Gloucester estab- 
lished the Sunday-school, which for England was the 
beginning of popular education. 

These facts help us to understand one of the note- 
worthy literary features of the period. It is the relative 
predominance of prose. Poetry retires somewhat into 
the background. Fancy gives way to reason. It was a 
practical age, largely absorbed in material advancement 
and political and social reform. The task laid on the age 
was too serious to encourage merely the pleasures of the 
imagination. It was a time for thought and action. 

Historical writing attained an excellence that has 
scarcely been surpassed. There arose three great histo- 
rians, who brought to their narratives philosophical insight, 
and a finished excellence of style. Hume, Robertson, and 
Gibbon are imperishable names. 

It was an age noted for its oratory. The world has 
never seen a group of greater orators than Chatham, 
Pitt, Burke, and Sheridan. Great questions of govern- 
ment presented themselves for consideration and action. 



AGE OF JOHNSON. 425 

Through the activity of the press, eloquence was no 
lono-er confined within the walls of Parliament. 

The principles of human liberty, of sound political 
economy, and of manly integrity have never had better 
utterance. The spirit of true patriotism never found 
nobler embodiment. '* Sir," exclaimed Pitt, after the 
passage of the Stamp Act had aroused resistance, " I 
rejoice that America has resisted. Three millions of 
people so dead to all the feelings of liberty as voluntarily 
to submit to be slaves would have been fit instruments to 
make slaves of the rest." 



426 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



ROBERT BURNS. 

The greatest poet of Scotland and the best song writer of 
the world — such is but a moderate estimate of Burns. Scarcely 
any one will be found to claim less, and some to claim more. 
A careful study of his writings, in connection with the unfavor- 
able circumstances of his life, impresses us with his extraordi- 
nary genius. He was the greatest poetic genius produced by 
Great Britain in the eighteenth century. A peculiar interest 
attaches to him. His great natural gifts were hampered by 
poverty and manual toil, and enslaved by evil habits, so that 
he accomplished only a small part of what was possible for him. 
That his genius was chained by untoward circumstances awa- 
kens our profound pity and regret ; and that he weakly yielded 
to intemperance and immorality arouses our censure and indig- 
nation. 

His life was a tragedy — a proud and powerful mind over- 
come at length in the hard struggle of life. The catastrophe 
was unspeakably sad ; yet — let not our admiration of his gifts 
blind our judgment — Burns himself, and not an unkind des- 
tiny, was chiefly to blame. Genius has no exemption from 
the ordinary rules of morality. If he had abstained from 
drunken carousals and illicit amours, his life might have been 
crowned with beauty and honor. No doubt, as is often chari- 
tably said, he had strong passions and severe temptations ; but 
these he ought to have resisted; for, as Carlyle says, "Nature 
fashions no creature without implanting in it the strength need- 
ful for its action and duration : least of all does she so neglect 
her masterpiece and darling, the poetic soul.'" 

Robert Burns was born in a clay-built cottage two miles from 
the town of Ayr in 1759. His father was a man of strict in- 



ROBERT BURNS. 42/ 

tegrity and deep piety. We have an imperishable portrait of 
him in "The Cotter's Saturday Night." His early years were 
spent on a small, unfruitful farm in poverty and toil. His 
strength was overtaxed, his shoulders became stooped, and his 
nervous system was weakened. He afterwards spoke of this 
period as combining "the cheerless gloom of a hermit with the 
unceasing moil of a galley slave." 

Yet this hardship was not without some relief. His humble 
home was sweetened with kindness and love ; and the future 
poet was taught, first in school and afterwards by his father, the 
elements of learning. His mind was enlarged and his taste re- 
fined by works of the highest merit. His early reading included 
"The Spectator," Shakespeare, Pope, and Locke's " Human 
Understanding." 

In his fifteenth year his genius was awakened under the 
sweet spell of love. " You know," he says, " our country cus- 
tom of coupling a man and woman together as partners in the 
labors of harvest. In my fifteenth summer my partner was a 
bewitching creature, a year younger than myself. My scarcity 
of English denies me the power of doing her justice in that 
language ; but you know the Scottish idiom. She was a bon- 
nie, sweet, sonsie lass. In short, she, altogether unwittingly to 
herself, initiated me into that delicious passion which, in spite 
of acid disappointment, gin-horse prudence, and bookworm 
philosophy, I hold to be the first of human joys here below." 
The first offspring of his muse was entitled " Handsome Nell," 
which, though he afterwards spoke of it as puerile, still contains 
a touch of that charming simplicity of thought and expression 
which characterizes so much of his poetry. Is not this stanza 

delightful t 

" She dresses aye sae clean and neat, 
Baith decent and genteel, 
And then there's something in her gait 
Gars^ ony dress look weel." 

At the age of nineteen he went to Kirkoswald to study men- 
suration and surveying. It turned out to be a bad move. The 

^ Makes, 



428 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

town was frequented by smugglers and adventurers ; and Burns 
was introduced into scenes of what he calls " swaggering riot 
and roaring dissipation." He worked at his mensuration with 
sufficient diligence till he one day met a pretty lass and fell in 
love. The current of his thought was turned from mathematics 
to poetry, and put an end to his studies. Love-making now 
became a common business with him. He composed a song on 
every pretty girl he knew. The most beautiful of the songs of 
this period is his " Mary Morison," which was inspired by a 
real affection : — 

"Yestreen, when to the trembling string, 

The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', 
To thee my fancy took its wing, 

I sat, but neither heard nor saw: 
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, 

And yon the toast of a' the town, 
I sigh'd and said amang them a', 

Ye are na Mary iSIorison. 

Oh, Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 

\Vha for thy sake wad gladly die; 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Whase only faut is loving thee? 
If love for love thou wilt na gie. 

At least be pity to me shown; 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison." 

In spite of his sweet love songs his suit was rejected — an 
incident that long cast a shadow over his inner life. He was a 
great reader. He possessed a " Collection of English Songs ; " 
and this he says, " was my vade-mecum. I pored over them 
driving my cart, or walking to labor, song by song, verse by 
verse ; carefully noticing the true, tender, or sublime, from af- 
fectation or fustian ; and I am convinced I owe to this practice 
much of my critic craft, such as it is." A consciousness of his 
strength began to dawn upon him and to fill his mind with a 
great ambition. Amidst his varied labors on the farm, as a 
beardless boy, he felt — 



ROBERT BURNS. 429 

" E'en then a wish, I mind its power, 
A wish that to my latest hour 

Shall strongly heave my breast : 
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake. 
Some useful plan or book could make, 

Or sing a sang at least." 

In the summer of 1781 he went to Irvine to learn the flax- 
dressing business in the hope of increasing thereby the profits 
of farming. It turned out to be a disastrous undertaking. As 
at Kirkoswald, he fell into the company of smugglers and ad- 
venturers, by whom he was encouraged in loose opinions and 
bad habits. With the unsettling of his religious convictions, 
he overleaped the restraints that had hitherto kept him in the 
path of virtue. 

His flax-dressing came to an abrupt close. He was robbed 
by his partner ; and his shop took fire at a New Year's carousal, 
and was burnt to the ground. Dispirited and tormented with 
an evil conscience, he returned to his home, which was soon to 
be overshadowed by the death of his father. " Whoever lives 
to see it," the old man had said, " something extraordinary will 
come from that boy." But he went to the grave sorely troubled 
with apprehensions about the future of his gifted son. 

Burns now made an effort to reform. In his own words, " I 
read farming books, I calculated crops, I attended markets, and, 
in short, in spite of the devil, the world, and the flesh, I should 
have been a wise man ; but the first year, from unfortunately 
buying bad seed, the second, from a late harvest, we lost half 
our crops. This overset all my wisdom ; and I returned like the 
dog to his vomit, and the sow that was washed to her wallowing 
in the mire." He came under ecclesiastical discipline for im- 
morality, and revenged himself by lashing the minister and 
church officers with keen and merciless satire. His series of 
religious satires, in spite of all their inimitable brilliancy of wit, 
reflect little credit either on his judgment or his character. 
While his harvests were failing, and his business interests were 
all going against him, he found solace in rhyme. As he says, — 



430 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

*' Leeze me ^ on. rhyme ! it's aye a treasure, 
My chief, amaist my only pleasure, 
At hame, a-fiel', at wark, at leisure, 

The Muse, poor hizzie ! 
Tho' rough and raplock'^ be her measure, 
She's seldom lazy." 

The year 1785, while he was laboring with his brother on a 
farm at Mossgiel, saw the greatest activity of his muse. It was 
at that time that he composed "To a Mouse," "The Cotter's 
Saturday Night," "Address to the Deil," "Man Was Made to 
Mourn," and "The Mountain Daisy," which established his 
fame on a lasting foundation. They were composed behind 
the plough, and afterwards written in a little farmhouse garret. 
" Thither," says Chambers, " when he had returned from his 
day's work, the poet used to retire, and seat himself at a small 
deal table, lighted by a narrow skylight in the roof, to transcribe 
the verses which he had composed in the fields. His favorite 
time for composition was at the plough." 

His immoral conduct again brought him into serious trouble. 
The indignant father of Jean Armour put the officers of the 
law upon his track. By a subsequent marriage with Jean, he 
did something in* the way of repairing the wrong. While lurk- 
ing in concealment, he resolved to emigrate to Jamaica ; and 
to secure the necessary means for the voyage, he published a 
volume of his poems in 1786. 

The result altered all his plans. The volume took Scotland 
by storm. "Old and young," says a contemporary, "high and 
low, grave and gay, learned and ignorant, were alike delighted, 
agitated, transported. I was at that time resident in Galloway, 
contiguous to Ayrshire, and I can well remember how even 
plough-boys and maid-servants would have gladly bestowed the 
wages they earned most hardly, and which they wanted to pur- 
chase necessary clothing, if they might procure the works of 
Burns." 

As a financial venture, the volume brought him only twenty 

1 I am happy in rhyme. ^ Coarse. 



ROBERT BURNS. 43 I 

pounds ; but what was of more importance, it retained him in 
his native country, and introduced him to the noble and the 
learned of Edinburgh. He has left a humorous account of 
the first time he met a nobleman socially, and " dinner'd wi' a 
Lord " : — 

" But wi' a Lord ! stand out my shin, 
A Lord — a Peer, an Earl's son ! 

Up higher yet my bonnet ! 
And sic a Lord ! lang Scotch ells twa, 
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a', 
As I look o'er a sonnet." 

Professor Dugald Stewart has given an interesting account 
of Burns's bearing on the same occasion : "His manners were 
then, as they continued ever afterwards, simple, manly, and in- 
dependent ; strongly expressive of conscious genius and worth, 
but without anything that indicated forwardness, arrogance, or 
vanity. He took his share in conversation, but not more than 
belonged to him ; and listened with apparent attention and def- 
erence on subjects where his want of education deprived him of 
the means of information." 

In November, 1786, Burns deemed it wise to visit the 
Scottish metropolis. His journey thither on horseback was 
a continued ovation. He occupied very humble quarters, lodg- 
ing in a small room costing three shillings a week. From this 
lowly abode he went forth into the best society of Edinburgh, 
to which his genius gained him ready admission. He was the 
social lion of the day. 

The Scottish capital was noted at this time for the literary 
talent gathered there. In the most polished drawing-rooms of 
the city, Burns met Dugald Stewart, William Robertson, Adam 
Smith, Hugh Blair, and others of scarcely less celebrity. He 
did not suffer from this contact with the ablest men of his 
country. Indeed, it has been said by one who knew him well 
that poetry was not his forte. His brilliant conversation — 
his vigorous thought, sparkling wit, and trenchant style — 
sometimes eclipsed his poetry. 



432 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

His manner was open and manly, a consciousness of native 
strength preserving him from all servilit3^ He showed, as 
Lockhart says, " in the strain of his bearing his belief that in 
the society of the most eminent men of his nation he was 
where he was entitled to be, hardly deigning to flatter them by 
exhibiting a symptom of being flattered." He was especially 
pleasing to ladies, "fairly carrying them off their feet," as one 
of them said, " by his deference of manner and the mingled 
humor and pathos of his talk." 

He cherished a proud feeling of independence. He em- 
phasized individual worth, and looked with contempt on what 
may be regarded as the mere accidents of birth or fortune. To 
this feeling, which finds a response in every noble breast, he 
gave powerful expression in his song, " A Man's a Man for a' 
That " : — 

" Is there, for honest poverty, 

That hangs his head, and a' that? 
The coward slave, we pass him by; 

We dare be puir for a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Our toils obscure and a' that, 
'The rank is but the guinea-stamp — 
The man's the gowd^ for a' that." 

He chafed under the inequalities of fortune he discovered 
in society, and sometimes showed an inconsiderate bitterness 
of feeling. " There are few of the sore evils under the sun 
give me more uneasiness and chagrin," he writes in his diary, 
" than the comparison how a man of genius, nay, of avowed 
worth, is received everywhere, with the reception which a mere 
ordinary character, decorated with the trappings and futile dis- 
tinctions of fortune meets." "He had not yet learned — he 
never did learn" — says Principal Shairp, "that lesson, that 
the genius he had received was his allotted and sufficient por- 
tion ; and that his wisdom lay in making the most of this rare 
inward gift, even on a meagre allowance of this world's exter- 
nal goods." 

1 Gold. 



ROBERT BURNS. 433 

Unfortunately for Burns he did not confine himself to the 
cultivated circles of Edinburgh. He frequented the social 
clubs that gathered nightly in the taverns. Here he threw off 
all restraint, and the mirth frequently became fast and furious. 
Deep drinking, rough raillery, and coarse songs made up the 
sum of these revellings, which served at once to deprave the 
poet's character and to ruin his reputation. 

In 1787 the ostensible purpose for which Burns had come 
to Edinburgh was accomplished, and a second volume of his 
poems was issued by the leading publisher of the city. He 
then made two brief tours through the border districts and the 
highlands of Scotland for the purpose of visiting points cele- 
brated for beauty of scenery or consecrated by heroic deeds. 
He returned for a few months to Edinburgh ; but the coarse 
revelries of his previous visit had undermined his influence, and 
he met with only a cold reception. 

Before leaving the city he received an appointment in the 
Excise. He had hoped for something better. But he wrote to 
a friend : " The question is not at what door of fortune's pal- 
ace shall we enter in, but what doors does she open for us." 
He also leased a farm at Ellisland, which he had long set his 
heart on. 

Returning to Ayrshire, he married Jean Armour, whom the 
poet had a second time betrayed, and whom an angered father 
had thrust from his door. The poet writes : " I have married 
my Jean. I had a long and much-loved fellow-creature's happi- 
ness or misery in my determination, and I durst not trifle with 
so important a deposit, nor have I any cause to repent it. If I 
have not got polite tittle-tattle, modish manners, and fashion- 
able dress, I am not sickened and disquieted with the multi- 
form curse of boarding-school affectation ; and I have got the 
handsomest figure, the sweetest temper, the soundest constitu- 
tion, and the kindest heart in the country." The truth of this 
characterization is established by the patience with which Jean 
bore the irregularities of her husband's life. 

His farm at Ellisland proved a failure. His duties as ex- 



434 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

ciseman, besides leading him into bad company, prevented that 
strict supervision of farm work which was necessary to success. 
He suffered much from depression of spirits, to which the 
recollections of his wayward life contributed no small part. 
"Alas!" he writes, "who would wish for many years ? What 
is it but to drag existence until our joys gradually expire, and 
leave us in a night of misery, like the gloom which blots out 
the stars, one by one from the face of heaven, and leaves us 
without a ray of comfort in the howling waste ?"" 

He continued to find at intervals solace in poetry. One 
morning he heard the report of a gun, and shortly after saw a 
poor w^ounded hare limping by. The condition of the little 
animal touched his heart, and called forth the excellent poem 
"On Seeing a Wounded Hare Limp by ]\Ie," written in classic 
English : — 

" Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, 
The bitter little that of life remains : 
No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains 
To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield." 

We meet with this tender sympathy with nature, and strong 
sense of fellowship with lower creatures, in many of his poems. 
It is one secret of their charm. In the poem '' To a Mouse '' 
is the following : — 

" I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken Nature's social union, 
An' justifies that ill opinion 

Which makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor earth-born companion 
An' fellow-mortal ! " 

The cold blasts of a winter night remind him of — 

" Ilk happing bird, wee helpless thing, 
That in the merry months o' spring 
Delighted me to hear thee sing. 

What comes o' thee? 
Where wilt thou cower thy chittering wing. 
And close thy e'e? " 



ROBERT BURNS. 435 

The choicest products of this sojourn at Ellisland are the 
immortal " Tale o' Tarn o' Shanter," and " To Mary in Heaven." 
The latter is a song of deep pathos. Years before he had loved 
his " Highland Mary " with a deep devotion. Their parting 
by the banks of Ayr — which the untimely death of Mary made 
the last — was attended with vows of eternal constancy. Her 
memory never vanished from the poet's mind. On the anni- 
versary of her death, in October, 1786, he grew sad and wan- 
dered about his farmyard the whole night in deep agitation of 
mind. As dawn approached he was persuaded by his wife to 
enter the house, when he sat down and wrote those pathetic 
lines, beginning : — 

" Thou lingering star with lessening ray, 

That lov'st to greet the early morn, 
Again thou usherest in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn, 
O Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? " 

In 179T Burns removed to Dumfries, and gave his whole 
time to the duties of the Excise, for which he received seventy 
pounds a year. At Ellisland he had written : — 

" To make a happy fireside clime, 
For weans and wife, 
Is the true pathos and sublime 
Of human life." 

Unfortunately he did not live as wisely as he sang. His 
spirit became soured toward those more favored by fortune. 
His nights were frequently spent at the tavern with drinking 
cronies. His life is summed up in one of his letters : " Hurry of 
business, grinding the faces of the publican and the sinner on 
the merciless wheels of the Excise, making ballads, and then 
drinking and singing them ; and over and above all, correcting 
the press of two different publications." 



436 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

In 1792 his aid was solicited in the preparation of ''Melo- 
dies of Scotland." He entered into the undertaking with 
enthusiasm, \^^hen the editor, George Thompson of Edin- 
burgh, once sent him some money in return for a number of 
songs, the poet wrote : '' I assure you, my dear sir, that you 
truly hurt me with your pecuniary parcel. It degrades me in 
my own eyes. However, to return it would savor of affecta- 
tion ; but, as to any more traffic of that debtor and creditor 
kind, I swear by that honor which crowns the upright stature 
of Robert Burns's integrity, on the least motion of it, I will 
indignantly spurn the by-pact transaction, and from that mo- 
ment commence entire stranger with you."' In view^ of the 
financial straits into which he shortly afterwards came, this 
must be regarded as an unwise sacrifice of prudence to senti- 
ment. 

Burns strongly sympathized with the revolutionary move- 
ment in France ; and to this feeling no less than to his Scottish 
patriotism, if we may believe his own account, we owe the 
thrilling lines of "Bruce's Address," which Carlyle says '"'should 
be sung with the throat of the w^hirlwind." The excellence of 
this poem has b'een questioned by Wordsworth and others ; but 
let the following lines be read with something of the heroic 
fervor with which they w^ere composed, and all doubts will be 
set at rest : — 

" Wha will be a traitor knave? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave? 
Wha so base as be a slave? 
Let him turn and flee." 

The end was drawing near. The irregularities of his life 
had undermined his strong constitution. He was often serious. 
" I find that a man may live like a fool," he said to his friend, 
" but he will scarcely die like one." In April, 1796, he wrote : 
" Alas, my dear Thompson, I fear it will be some time before 
I tune my lyre again ! By Babel streams I have sat and 
wept, almost ever since I wTote you last ; I have known 
existence only by the pressure of the heavy hand of sickness. 



ROBERT BURNS. 437 

and have counted time by the repercussions of pain ! Rheu- 
matism, cold, and fever have formed to me a terrible combina- 
tion. I close my eyes in misery and open them without hope. 
I look on the vernal day, and say, with poor Ferguson, — 

' Say wherefore has an all-indulgent heaven 
Light to the comfortless and wretched given? ' " 

His last days were illumined now and then by flashes of 
poetic fire. For Jessie Lewars, a young girl that had seen the 
poet's need, and from sympathy had come into his home to 
assist in domestic duties, he wrote the following beautiful 
lines : — 

" Oh ! wert thou in the cauld, cauld blast, 
On yonder lea, on yonder lea, 
My plaidie to the angry airt,i 

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee. 
Or did misfortune's bitter storms 

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, 
Thy bield ^ should my bosom be, 
To share it a', to share it a'. 

Or were I in the wildest waste, 

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, 
The desert were a paradise. 

If thou wert there, if thou wert there : 
Or were I monarch o' the globe, 

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign. 
The brightest jewel in my crown 

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen." 

The 2 1 St of July, 1796, with his children around his bed, 
the great poet of Scotland passed away. Let our final judg- 
ment of him as a man be tempered by the gentle spirit he 
commends in the " Address to the Unco Guid: " — 

*' Then gently scan your brother man. 
Still gentler sister woman; 
Tho' they may gang a kennin^ wrang. 
To step aside is human-: 

1 Point of the compass. 2 Shelter. 3 Trifle. 



438 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

One point must still be greatly dark 
The moving zvhy they do it ; 

And just as lamely can ye mark, 
How far perhaps they rue it. 

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us ; 
He knows each chord — its various tone, 

Each spring — its various bias; 
Then at the balance let's be mute, 

We never can adjust it; 
What's done we partly may compute. 

But know not what's resisted.'''' 



As a poet Burns's life was incomplete. His struggle with 
poverty and his bad habits left him only fragments of his 
power to be devoted to literature. He was not guided by the 
controlling influence of a great purpose. His efforts were spas- 
modic — the result of accidental circumstances. His genius 
has not the range of Shakespeare's ; but within its limits it is 
unsurpassed. He was the greatest peasant poet that ever lived. 
Unlike Wordsworth, in whom the reflective element is largely 
developed, Burns is a painter of nature. He has glorified the 
landscape of his native land. Beyond all other poets he has 
caught the beauty, the humor, the pathos, of every-day life. 
He was thoroughly honest in his best writings. There is no 
attitudinizing in his poems, no pretence to unreal sentiment. 
He was a poet — 

" Whose songs gushed from his heart, 
As drops from the clouds of summer, 
Or tears from the eyelids start." 

He felt deeply, and then poured forth his song oecause he 
could not otherwise find peace. He could not endure affecta- 
tion, rant, hypocrisy. At heart devout before the great Author 
and Preserver of all things, he yet rebelled against some of the 
hard features religion had assumed. In his " Epistle to a 
Young Friend," his real feelings are indicated : — 



ROBERT BURNS. 439 

"The great Creator to revere, 

Must sure become the creature; 
But still the preaching cant forbear, 

And ev'n the rigid feature: 
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, 

Be complaisance extended; 
An Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange 

For Deity offended. 

When ranting round in pleasure's ring, 

Religion may be blinded; 
Or, if she gie a random sting, 

It may be little minded : 
But when on life we're tempest-driven, 

A conscience but a canker — 
A correspondence fixed wi' Heaven, 

Is sure a noble anchor." 

More than any other man he saw the beauty of a sincere 
reUgious life, to a portrayal of which he devoted the best of 
his poems. His sensibilities were extraordinarily sensitive and 
strong. ''There is scarcely any earthly object,'' he says, ''gives 
me more — I do not know if I should call it pleasure — but 
something which exalts me, something which enraptures me — 
than to walk in the sheltered side of a wood or high plantation 
in a cloudy winter day, and hear the stormy wind howling 
among the trees and raving over the plain. ... I listened to 
the birds and frequently turned out of my path, lest I should 
disturb their little songs or frighten them to another station." 
With such a sensitive nature it is no wonder that we find con- 
tradictions in his poetry. The storm of emotion drives quickly 
from grave to gay, from high to low. He has written much 
that ought to be and will be forgotten. But upon the whole, 
his poetry is elevating in its tone — a treasure for which we 
ought to be thankful. It is the voice of a man who, with all 
his weakness and sin, w^as still, in his best moments, honest, 
manly, penetrating, and powerful- 



440 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 

Inscribed to R. Aikin, Esq. 

" Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destinj- obscure ; 
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
The short and simple annals of the poor." 
Gray. 

I. 

My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend ! 

No mercenary bard his homage pays : 
With honest pride I scorn each selfish end ; 

My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise : 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays. 

The lowly train in life's sequestered scene ; 
The native feelings strong, the guileless ■\^^ys ; 

What Aikin in a cottage ^YOuld have been : 
Ah ! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. 



November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh : 

The shortening winter-day is near a close : 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh : 

The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose : 
The toil-worn cotter fi-ae his labour goes, 

This night his weekly moil is at an end. 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes. 

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend. 
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. 



III. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view. 
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree : 

Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin', stacher thro* 
To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise an' glee. 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 441 

His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily, 

His clean heartli-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 
Does a' his weary, carking cares beguile, 
An' makes him quite forget his labour and his toil. 



Belyve, the elder bairns come drappin' in, 

At service out, amang the farmers roun' : 
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 30 

A cannie errand to a neebor town : 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 

In youthfu' bloom, love sparklin' in her e'e, 
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown, 

Or deposit her sair-won penny fee, 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 



Wi' joy unfeigned, brothers and sisters meet. 

And each for other's weelfare kindly spiers : 
The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnoticed fleet : 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; 4° 

The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; 

Anticipation forward points the view ; 
The mother, wi' her needle an' her shears, 

Gars auld claes look amaist as weePs the new ; — 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 



Their master's an' their mistress's command, 

The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 
An' mind their labours wi' an eydent hand. 

An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play : 
" An' O ! be sure to fear the Lord alway ! 50 

An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night ! 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 

Implore his counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain, that sought the Lord aright ! " 



442 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neebor lad cam' o'er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; 60 

With heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name, 

While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; 
Weel pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae wild, worthless rake. 

VIII. 

Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben : 

A strappin' youth ; he taks the mother's eye ; 
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 

The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, 

But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave ; 
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 70 

What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave ; 
Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave. 



O happy love ! where love like this is found ! 

O heart-felt raptures ! — bliss beyond compare ! 
I've pac^d much this weary, mortal round, 

And sage experience bids me this declare — 
" If heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare 

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis Avhen a youthful, loving, modest pair. 

In other's arms, breathe out the tender tale, 80 

Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale." 

X. 

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart — • 

A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art. 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY lYIGHT. A^A^^ 

Curse on his perjur'd arts I dissembling smooth ! 

Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild? 90 

XI. 

But now the supper crowns their simple board, 

The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food : 
The sowpe their only hawkie does afford, 

That Vont the hallan snugly chows her cood ; 
The dame brings forth in complimental mood, 

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck fell — 
An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ; 

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. 



The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face. 

They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; 
The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace. 

The big ha' Bible, ance his father's pride ; . 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 

His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide. 

He wales a portion with judicious care : 
And " Let us worship God ! " he says, with solemn air. 



They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : 
Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise. 

Or plaintive Martyrs, w^orthy of the name. 
Or noble Elgin beets the heav'nward flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame : 

The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise ; 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 



444 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

XIV. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 120 

How Abram was tlie friend of God on high ; 
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 

Beneath the stroke of Heav'n's avenging ire ; 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

XV. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme. 

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 
How He, who bore in heaven the second name, 

Had not on earth whereon to lay his head ; 13° 

How his first followers and servants sped ; 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : 
How he, who lone in Patmos banished. 

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, 
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Heaven's com- 
manci . 

XVI. 

Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, 

The saint, the father, and the husband prays : 
Hope " springs exulting on triumphant wing,"' 

That thus they all shall meet in future days : 
There ever bask in uncreated rays, 140 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 
Together hymning their Creator's praise, 

In such society, yet still more dear ; 
While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 



Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, 
In all the pomp of method and of art. 

When men display to congregations wide, 
Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart! 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT 445 

The PowV, incensed, the pageant will desert, 

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; . 15° 

But, haply, in some cottage far apart, 

May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul ; 
And in the book of life the inmates poor enrol. 

XVIII. 

Then homeward all take off their several w^ay; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest; 
The parent-pair their secret homage pay. 

And proiTer up to Heaven the warm request, 
That He, who stills the raven's clamorous nest, 

And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride. 
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, 160 

For them and for their little ones provide ; 
But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. 

XIX. 

From scenes like these, old Scotia's grandeur springs, 

That makes her loved at home, rever'd abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 

" An honest man's the noblest work of God : " 
And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 
What is a lordling's pomp? — a cumbrous load, 

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 170 

Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd ! 



O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 

Be bless'd with health, and peace, and sweet content ! 
And, O ! may Heaven their simple lives prevent 

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 

A virtuous populace may rise the while. 
And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd isle. 18° 



446 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



O Thou ! who poured the patriotic tide 

That stream'd thro" Wallace's undaunted heart. 
Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, 

Or nobly die, the second glorious part : 
(The patriot's God peculiarly thou art. 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) 
O never, never, Scotia's realm desert ; 

But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! 



TO A MOUSE. 

On Turning Her up in her Xest with the Plough. 
November. 17S5. 

W^EE, sleekit. cow'rin*. tim'rous beastie, 
O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 

Wi' bickering brattle ! 
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee. 

Wi' murdering pattle ! 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken Nature's social union, 
An' justifies that ill opinion 

Which makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor earth-born companion. 

An' fellow-mortal ! 



I doubt na. whyles, but thou may thieve ; 
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live ! 
A daimen-icker in a thrave 

'S a sma' request : 
I'll get a blessin" wi' the lave. 

And never miss't ! 



TO A MOUSE. 44^ 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 

Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' ! 20 

An' naething, now, to big a new ane, 

O' foggage green ! 
An' bleak December's winds ensuin', 

Baith snell and keen ! 



Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, 
And weary winter comin' fast, 
And cozie, here, beneath the blast, 

Thou thought to dwell, 
Till crash ! the cruel coulter past 

Out thro' thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble. 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, 

But house or hald. 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 

An' cranreuch cauld! 



But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane. 
In proving foresight may be vain : 
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men. 

Gang aft a-gley, 40 

An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain. 

For promis'd joy. 

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! 
The present only toucheth thee : 
But, Och ! I backward cast my e'e 

On prospects drear ; 
An' forward, tho' I canna see, 

I guess an' fear. 



448 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 

On Turning One Down with the Plough in April, 1786. 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, 
Thou's met me in an evil liour ; 
For I maun crusli among the stoure 

Thy slender stem ; 
To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 

Thou bonnie gem ! 



Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet. 
The bonnie lark, companion meet ! 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, 

Wi* spreckl'd breast, 
When upward-springing, blithe to greet 

The purpling east. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield. 
High sheltring woods and wa's maun shield 
But thou, beneath the random bield 

O' clod or stane, 
Adorns the histie stibble-field, 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread. 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise ; 
But now the share uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies. 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 449 

Such is the fate of artless maid, 
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade ! 
By love's simplicity betrayed, 

And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple bard. 

On life's rough ocean luckless starred ! 

Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore, 40 

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

And whelm him o'er! 

Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n. 

Who long with wants and woes has striven, 

By human pride or cunning driv'n 

To misery's brink, 
Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, 

He, ruin'd, sink ! 

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy''s fate, 

That fate is thine — no distant date ; 50 

Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate, 

Full on thy bloom. 
Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight. 

Shall be thy doom ! 



450 EXGLISH LITERATURE. 



NOTES TO THE COTTER'S SATURDAY XIGHT. 

i^Tii^ iuinihers refer to lines.) 

This is the best known of Burns's longer poems. As we have already 
learned from our study of the poet, his fathers cottage supplied the principal 
features. But the poem has a far wider significance. It is a description of the 
ideal peasant life of Scotland. In its substantial elements, an exemplification 
might have been found in a thousand homes. Said an old Scotch serving- 
woman, to whom a copy of '"The Cotter's Saturday Xight " had been given 
for perusal, " Gentlemen and ladies may think muckle o' this; but for me it's 
naething but what I saw i' my faither's house every day, and I dinna see how 
he could hae tell't it ony ither way."" 

It would lead us too far to inquire particularly into the causes that have 
produced this beautiful peasant life. No doubt the basis of it is to be found 
in the native sturdiness of the Scotch character. But the immediate cause 
must be sought in religion. The truths and duties of Christianity occupied a 
large place in the daily thought and life. The sentiment of reverence, which 
seems to be sadly lacking at the present time, was carefully cultivated. Fam- 
ily worship was general : the Sabbath was strictly observed ; the Bible was 
revered and studied to an unusual degree. " The Cotter's Saturday Night " 
shows us how a humble, laboring life may be glorified by a simple, earnest, 
reverent piety. 

1. R. Aikin. to whom the poem is inscribed, was an attorney of Ayr, 
and a man of worth. 

2. Mercenary bard. — The poem was inspired, not by the hope of pe- 
cuniary reward, but simply by the promptings of friendly affection. 

5. Lays = songs, lyric poems. A favorite word with poets in the last 
century. 

6. Train = class, company. Another favorite word, much used by 
Goldsmith in the " Deserted Village." 

9. IVeen = think, imagine. From A. S. ii<ena?i, to imagine. 
10. Sng'i = a sighing sound as of wind in the trees. The local fea- 
tures of the poem are in the Ayrshire dialect, the poet"5 vernacular. 
12. J//"_j' = covered with mire or wet soil. — Plengh = plough. 

14. Ccttc)- = cottager: a small farmer. 

15. JAiii = toil, drudgery. 



NOTES TO THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT 45 1 

17. Mor)i = xwoxxovi. 

19. Cot ^^ cottage, 

21. IVee-things = little things, children. — Stacker = stagger. 

22. Flichterin' = fluttering. 

23. Ingle ^ fire, fireplace. — Bliiikiii' bonnily — blazing cheerfully. 

26. Car/ei;ig= distressing, oppressive. 

27. Toi7. — This word seems to have been pronounced tite. In the last 
century oi frequently had the sound of long 2. 

28. Belyve — by and by. — Bairns = children. 

30. Ca'' the pleugli == drive the plough. Literally, call. — Tentie rin = 
heedfully run. Tentie is a corruption of attentive. 

31. Cannie = trustworthy, careful. — A-eebor = neighbor. 

34. Braio = brave, in the sense oifine, handsome. 

35. Deposit has the accent on the first syllable. — Sair-ivon = hard \/on. 
— Penny fee = wages paid in money. Penny is used vaguely for fnoney. 

38. Spiers = inquires. 

40. U^tcos = news. 

44. Ga?-s anil claes, etc. = makes old clothes look almost as well as the 
new. 

47. Yonnkers = youngsters. 

48. £_y^/^/// = diligent. 

49. Jatik = trifle, dally. 

51. Dt{ty = prayers. 

52. Gang— go. 

56. PV/ia kens = who knows. 

58. Co7ivoy = accompany. 

59. Conscious = tell-tale. 
62. Ilafflins ^= partly, half. 

64. Ben =in. A. S. binnan, within. 

67. Cracks = talks. — Kye = cows. 

69. Blate = bashful. — laitk/n' = hesitating. 

72. lave = rest. 

88. Rztt/i = pity, tenderness. 

92. Halesome parritc/i = wholesome porridge, oatmeal pudding. 

93. Sowpe — milk. — Hatukie = a cow; properly one with a white 
face. 

94. 'F(3;// = beyond. — Halla/i = screen or low partition between the 
fireplace and the door. — Cko-cs her cool = chews her cud. 

96. Wecl-hain''d = well kept. — Kebbttck = cheese. — Fell — tasty, 
biting. 

99. How 'twas a toivniond.^ etc. = how it was a twelvemonth old since 

flax was in the bloom; that is, the cheese was a year old last flax-blossoming. 



452 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

103. Ha' -Bible = hall Bible; that is, the family Bible kept in the hall 
or chief room. 

104. Bonnet ^^ a cap or covering for the head, in common use before 
the introduction of hats, and still used by the Scotch. 

105. Z)'«r/= gray, mixed gray. — ■ Haffets — temples; literally, half- 
heads. 

107. JVales= chooses. Cf. Ger. wdhlen, to choose. 

III. Dundee, Martyrs , Elgin =^ names of Scottish psalm-tunes. 

113. i9<?<?A = adds fuel to. 

121. Ar,ialek''s nngracioiis progeny =^ the Amalekites, a fierce and war- 
like Canaanitish nation. They were uncompromising in their hostility to the 
Israelites. See Deut. xxv. 17-19. 

122. Royal bard =^Y)ZN\di. See 2 Sam. xii. 16. 

133. //"<?= the Apostle John. — Patmos= an island in the ^gean Sea, 
to which John was banished in the year 94, and where he wrote Revelation. 

135. Bahylon^^ i\\Q figurative Babylon spoken of in Rev. xviii. 2-24. 
Usually interpreted among Protestants as referring to papal Rome. 

138. From Pope's "Windsor Forest." 

143. Society = social enjoyment. 

150. Sacerdotal stole ^ priestly vestments or robes. 

156. 6'<?rri'/ /;cw(7^(?:= private devotions. 

166. From Pope's " Essay on Man." 

182. JVallace = the national hero of Scotland. He lived in the thirteenth 
century. 



TO A MOUSE. 

I. Sleekit = sly. — Coiij''rin- = cowering, crouching through fear. 

4. Bickering brattle = a short race. 

5. Wad be, etc. = would be loathe to run. 

6. Pattle = a paddle for cleaning the soil from the plough. 

13. J Vhy les = sometimes. 

14. Matin = must. 

15. Dainien = rare, now and then; daimen-icker = an ear of corn now 
and then. — Thrave=^ two shocks or twenty-four sheaves of corn; a consider- 
able quantity. 

20. Silly = frail, weak. — ]Va''s = walls. 

21. ^?^ = to build. 

22. Foggage = coarse grass. 
24. Snell= bitter, severe. 
31. ^■/Zi^i^/^ = stubble. 



» 



NOTES TO A MOUSE AND TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 453 

34. j5/// = without. A. S. Inilati, without. — Hald ^= home, abiding 
place. 

35. Thole = endure. — Dribble — drizzHng. 

36. Cranrench = hoar-frost. 

37. Xo thy lane = not alone. 

40. Gang aft a-gley = go often wrong. 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 

3. Stotire = dust. 

9. IVeet = wet, rain. 

15. C/Z/z/dv/ = peeped. 

21. Bielci= shelter, protection. 

23. IIistie= dry, barren. 



454 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 

A STRANGE combination of weakness and strength, of genius 
and folly. "Inspired idiot" is the terrific phrase with which 
Horace Walpole once described him. It is a gross caricature 
indeed, but having truth enough at bottom to be perpetuated. 
Goldsmith belonged to a literary club, the members of which 
occasionally dined together. Goldsmith was usually one of the 
last to arrive. While waiting for him one day, the company 
playfully composed a number of epitaphs on "the late Mr. 
Goldsmith." The epitaph by Garrick, the celebrated actor, 
has been preserved as a happy hit : — 

" Here lies poet Goldsmith, for shortness called Noll, 
Who wrote like an angel and talked like poor Poll." 

There are other anecdotes illustrating Goldsmith's awkward- 
ness in conversation. He greatly lacked self-confidence, and 
had a faculty for blundering. His friends sometimes took ad- 
vantage of his weaknesses, and for amusement tricked him into 
saying and doing absurd things. He has suffered also from 
thick-headed critics, who have sometimes misunderstood his 
delicate humor. Boswell, who was no friendly critic, but who 
reported facts truthfully, says : " It has been generally circu- 
lated and believed that Goldsmith was a mere fool in conver- 
sation ; but in truth, this has been greatly exaggerated.'" In 
spite of his deficiencies, he sometimes got the better of Dr. 
Johnson, the clearest and strongest talker of his time. Talking 
of fables once, Goldsmith remarked that the animals introduced 
seldom talked in character. "For instance," he said, "take 
the fable of the little fishes Avho saw birds fly over their heads, 
and envying them, petitioned Jupiter to be changed into birds. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 455 

The skill consists in making them talk like little fishes." Dr. 
Johnson took exception to the remark. " Ah, Doctor," he re- 
plied, '' this is not so easy as you may think ; for if you were 
to make little fishes talk, they would talk like whales." 

But we turn to his life. Scarcely any other English author 
has put into his writings so much of his character and expe- 
rience. Oliver Goldsmith was born at Pallas in the county of 
Longford, Ireland, in 1728, the son of a Protestant clergyman. 
About two years later his father moved to the village of Lissoy 
in the county of Westmeath, where he enjoyed a better living. 
An unusual interest is connected with that home. The amiable 
piety, learned simplicity, and guileless wisdom of his father are 
portrayed in the immortal "Vicar of Wakefield." It was a 
fireside where a Christian benevolence was inculcated and prac- 
tised. The memories of this home never left Goldsmith ; and 
years afterwards, in his "Deserted Village," he gave a famous 
description of " the village preacher's modest mansion : " — 

" A man he was to all the country dear, 
And passing rich with forty pounds a year; 
Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place." 

At the age of six years Goldsmith was sent to the village 
school taught by Thomas Byrne, an old soldier with a large 
stock of stories. Of him also we have a portrait in the " De- 
serted Village : " — 

" A man severe he was, and stern to view, 
I knew him well, and every truant knew: 
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face. 
Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee 
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; 
Full well the busy whisper circling round, 
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned." 

As a pupil he was dull — a stupid blockhead he was thought 
to be ; but his amiability and thoughtless generosity, which 



456 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

characterized him all through life, made him popular with his 
schoolmates. An incident that occurred in his sixteenth year, 
not only throws light upon his character, but also shows the 
origin of his most famous comedy. He was returning heme 
from Edgeworthstown, where he had been attending school. 
He had borrowed a horse for the journey, and received from a 
friend a guinea. He at once began to put on airs, and to affect 
the gentleman. Arriving in a village at night-fall, he inquired 
for the best house in the place, and was directed by a wag to 
the private house of a gentleman of fortune. Accordingly he 
rode up to what he supposed to be an inn, ordered his horse 
to be taken to the stable, walked into the parlor, seated him- 
self by the fire, and demanded what lie could have for supper. 
The gentleman of the house, discovering his mistake, concluded 
to humor him, and gave him the freedom of the house for the 
evening. He was highly elated. When supper was served, he 
insisted that the landlord, his wife, and daughter should eat with 
him, and ordered a bottle of wine to crown the repast. When 
next morning he discovered his blunder, his sense of humilia- 
tion can easily be imagined. With the literary instinct that 
turned all his experiences to account, he dramatized this inci- 
dent many years afterwards in "She Stoops to Conquer; or, 
The Mistakes of a Night." Throughout his life, as in this case, 
the possession of money made a fool of him. 

In his seventeenth year Goldsmith entered 'J rinity College, 
Dublin, as a sizar. This relation was naturally repugnant to 
his timid and sensitive nature. His tutor was ill-tempered and 
harsh; some studies, especially mathematics and logic, were 
distasteful to him. His social nature betrayed him into a 
neglect of his studies, and his love of fun got him into trouble. 
Having once gained a prize of thirty shillings, he gave a dance 
at his room to some young men and women of the city. This 
was a violation of the college rules ; and his tutor, attracted 
by the sound of the fiddle, rushed to the scene of festivity, gave 
Goldsmith a thrashing, and turned his guests out of doors. 

An anecdote, belonging to this period, illustrates the ten- 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 457 

der heart and inconsiderate benevolence tliat characterized his 
whole life. He had been invited to breakfast by a college 
friend, and, failing to make his appearance, was visited at his 
room. There he was found in bed, buried in feathers up to his 
chin. The evening before, a woman with five children had 
told him a pitiful tale of her distress and need. It was too 
much for his sympathetic nature ; and bringing the woman to 
the college gate, he gave her the blankets off his bed, and a 
part of his clothing to sell and buy bread. Getting cold in 
the night, he had ripped open his bed and buried himself in the 
feathers. 

In due course he took his bachelor's degree, and returned 
to his home. It had been sadly changed by the death of his 
father. The next two or three years were spent in a desultory 
way; while ostensibly preparing to take orders, he was in 
reality spending his time in miscellaneous reading and rustic 
convivialities. He did dot like the clerical profession. "To 
be obliged to wear a long wig when I liked a short one," he 
says in explanation of his antipathy, " or a black coat when I 
generally dressed in brown, I thought such a restraint upon 
my liberty that I absolutely rejected the proposal." 

His fondness for gay dress was a weakness throughout his 
life, and more than once exposed him to ridicule. When the 
time for his examination came, he appeared before the Bishop 
of Elphin arrayed in scarlet breeches. This silly breach of 
propriety cost him the good opinion of the bishop, and led to 
his rejection. 

Then followed a succession of undertakings and failures 
without parallel. He became tutor in a good family, and lost 
his position on account of a quarrel at cards. He then re- 
solved to emigrate to America, and left for Dublin mounted on 
a good horse and having thirty guineas in his pocket. In six 
weeks he returned to his mother's door in a condition not un- 
Hke that of the prodigal son. Every penny was gone. He 
explained that the ship on which he had engaged passage had 
sailed while he was at a party of pleasure. The ship had been 



458 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

•waiting for a favorable wind; "and you know, mother," he 
said, "that I could not command the elements." 

His uncle Contarine, who was one of the few that had not 
lost all confidence in him, gave him fifty pounds with which 
to go to London for the purpose of studying law. He reached 
Dublin on his way ; but unfortunately he met an old acquaint- 
ance, who allured him into a gambling-house. He came out 
penniless. 

He was next advised to try medicine ; and a small purse 
having been made up for him, he set out for Edinburgh. He 
remained there eighteen months, during which he picked up a 
little medical science. But most of his time was spent in con- 
vivial habits. With gaming, feasting, and reckless generosity, 
he was often brought into financial difficulties. 

Then he went to Leyden, ostensibly for the purpose of 
completing his medical studies, but really, there is reason to 
believe, for the purpose of gratifying his roving disposition. 
He spent a year in that city with his usual improvidence. A 
friend provided him with money to go to Paris. The mania for 
tulip culture still prevailed in Holland. One day wandering- 
through a garden, Goldsmith suddenly recollected that his 
uncle Contarine, his steadfast benefactor, was a tulip fancier. 
Here, then, was an opportunity to show his appreciation. A 
number of choice and costly bulbs were purchased ; and not 
till after he had paid for them did he reflect that he had spent 
all the money designed for his travelling expenses. In this ex- 
tremity he set out on foot with his flute. " I had some knowl- 
edge of music," says the Philosophic Vagabond in the "Vicar 
of Wakefield," "with a tolerable voice; I now turned what 
was once my amusement into a present means of subsistence. 
I passed among the harmless peasants of Flanders, and among 
such of the French as were poor enough to be merry ; for I 
ever found them sprightly in proportion to their wants. When- 
ever I approached a peasant's house, I played one of my mer- 
riest tunes, and that procured me not only a lodging, but 
subsistence for the next day." In this way he was able to 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 459 

make the tour of Europe, visiting Flanders, France, Switzer- 
land, Germany, and Italy. At Padua he is said to have taken 
his medical degree. These travels, as we shall see, were after- 
wards to be turned to good account. 

In 1756 he returned to England. "You may easily im- 
agine," he wrote to a friend afterwards, " what difficulties I 
had to encounter, left as I was without friends, recommenda- 
tions, money, or impudence, and that in a country where being 
born an Irishman was sufficient to keep me unemployed. 
Many in such circumstances would have had recourse to a 
friar's cord or the suicide's halter. But, with all my follies, I 
had principle to resist the one, and resolution to combat the 
other." 

He went to London, where for the next several years he 
led an existence miserable enough. He became successively 
an usher in a school, an apothecary's assistant, a practising 
physician — and failed in them all. At last, after other un- 
lucky ventures, he settled down to the drudgery of a literary 
hack. From this humiliating station he was lifted by the force 
of genius alone. 

He began by writing for reviews and magazines, and com- 
piling easy histories. His first serious undertaking was " An 
Inquiry into the State of Learning in Europe," with which his 
career as an author may be said to begin. His work gradually 
gained recognition, and brought him better pay. His circle of 
acquaintance widened, and included the most distinguished 
literary talent of his time. Burke had discovered his genius ; 
Percy, afterwards Bishop of Dromore, sought him out in his 
garret ; and most important of all, Johnson, the great Cham as 
he has been humorously styled, sought his acquaintance. He 
had met Reynolds and Hogarth. In 1763 he became one of 
the original nine members of the Club, which included among 
others Johnson, Reynolds, and Burke, and to which were added 
subsequently Garrick and Boswell. He was thus brought into 
intimate fellowship with the choicest minds of the English 
metropolis. 



460 ENGLISH LITER A TURE. 

Having attracted their notice by the humor, grace, and 
picturesqueness of his style in writing, he won their affection 
by the guilelessness and amiabiUty of his character. There 
was a charm in his personality that triumphed over his weak- 
nesses, and drew the strongest and best men to him in tender 
friendship. That same charm exists in his works; and with the 
possible exception of Addison, he is, what Thackeray clamis 
for him, '' the most beloved of English writers." 

The lesson of economy he never learned. His growing 
income had enabled him to take better lodgings. But in 1764 
we find him in arrears for his board and in the hands of the 
sheriff. He sent for Johnson. " I sent him a guinea," says 
Johnson, " and promised to come to him directly. I accord- 
ingly w^ent as soon as I was dressed, and found that his land- 
lady had arrested him for rent, at which he was in a violent 
passion. I perceived that he had already changed my guinea, 
and got a bottle of Madeira and a glass before him. I put the 
cork into the bottle, desired he would be calm, and began to 
talk to him of the means by which he might be extricated. He 
then told me that he had a novel ready for the press, which he 
produced to me. I looked into it, and saw its merit; told the 
landlady I should return soon ; and having gone to a book- 
seller, sold it for sixty pounds. I brought Goldsmith the 
money ; and he discharged his rent, not without rating his 
landlady in a high tone for having used him so ill." But 
speedily relenting, he called her to share in a bowl of punch. 

The novel in question was no other than the " Vicar of Wake- 
field " — " one of the most delicious morsels of fictitious com- 
position," justly observes Sir Walter Scott, " on which the 
human mind was ever employed." The plot is indeed faulty; 
but the charm of the characters, the ludicrousness of the situa- 
tions, the grace of style, and the delicacy of humor, make it a 
book which we read with delight in youth, and return to with 
pleasure in maturity and old age. Notwithstanding its high 
rank as a work of genius, the stupid publisher kept it in hand 
two years before venturing to give it to the public. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 46 1 

In 1764, while the "Vicar of Wakefield " was being held by 
the publisher, Goldsmith published a poem called the " Travel- 
ler." It was the first work to which he attached his name. The 
time was favorable for its appearance, inasmuch as the British 
Muse was doing but little. Johnson kindly lent his assistance 
in bringing it out, reading over the proof-sheets, and adding 
here and there a line. The merits of the poem were soon 
recognized, and the general opinion agreed that nothing better 
had appeared since the time of Pope. Goldsmith dedicated it 
to his brother : — 

"Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, 
My heart untravelled fondly turns to thee; 
Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, 
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain." 

It embodies the observations of his tour on the continent ; 

but — 

" Vain, very vain, my weary search to find 
That bliss which only centres in the mind : 
Why have I strayed from pleasure and repose 
To seek a good each government bestows? 
In every government, though tyrants reign. 
Though tyrant kings, or tyrant laws restrain. 
How small, of all that human hearts endure. 
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure? 
Still to ourselves in every place consigned. 
Our own felicity we make or find; 
With secret course which no loud storms annoy, 
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy." 

The Earl of Northumberland read the poem and was greatly 
pleased with it. He sent for Goldsmith ; and after stating that 
he had been appointed Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, he ex- 
pressed a willingness to do the poet any kindness in his power. 
Goldsmith's genius for blundering did not desert him. He 
said that he had a brother in Ireland that needed help; but as 
for himself, he did not place much dependence in the promises 
of the great, and looked to the booksellers for a support. 



462 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Goldsmith continued to do hack writing for the booksellers, 
but did not neglect original composition. In 1768 appeared 
his comedy of " The Good-Natured Man." It was refused by 
Garrick, notwithstanding the intercession of Reynolds, and was 
brought out at Covent Garden. It did not gain the applause it 
merited, but as a financial venture it was a success. It was 
acted for nine nights ; and including the copyright, it brought 
the author no less than five hundred pounds. That was a 
dangerous sum for a man of his improvident habits. He at 
once rented elegant lodgings at a cost of four hundred pounds, 
and gave dinners to Johnson, Reynolds, and other friends of 
note. His chambers were often the scene of gay festivities ; 
and Blackstone, who occupied rooms immediately below, and 
was engaged on his "Commentaries," used to complain of the 
racket overhead. At this rate his means were of course soon 
exhausted. 

His labors for the booksellers included his " Animated 
Nature," "History of Rome," "History of England," and 
" History of Greece." These compilations were hardly worthy 
of his genius, but they brought him the means of liveli- 
hood. " I cannot afford to court the draggle-tail muses," he 
once said ; "they would let me starve ; but by my other labors 
I can make shift to eat, and drink, and have good clothes." 
But even his compilations bore the trace of his genius in the 
clear arrangement of facts and in his felicitous mode of treat- 
ment. "Whether indeed, we take him as a poet, as a comic 
writer, or as an historian," declared Johnson, "he stands in 
the first class." 

In 1770 appeared the "Deserted Village." In this he cast 
a glory around his native village, to which, as he approached 
the end of his life, his mind reverted with peculiar tenderness. 
The political economy presented is indeed false ; but the pic- 
tures the poem brings before us are as enduring as the lan- 
guage. Every one is acquainted with Paddy Byrne : — 

" In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill; 
For e'en though vanquished, he could argue still." 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. ' 463 

And then the village preacher — a portrait of Goldsmith's 
father and his brother Henry. It is one of the most delight- 
ful descriptions in the English language, rivalled alone by 
Chaucer's parson : — 

"And as a bird each fond endearment tries 
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way." 

The poem was at once successful, and has since retained, 
through all changes of taste, its place as a classic. 

In 1773 he gave his comedy, "She Stoops to Conquer," to 
the public. The plot turns on an incident suggested by his 
blunder as a school-boy. The theatrical manager predicted a 
complete failure, and Goldsmith was in great distress. But the 
night of the first presentation the theatre was filled ; and the 
humorous dialogue and the ridiculous incidents kept the audi- 
ence in a roar of laughter. It has since retained its place on 
the stage. 

During the last years of his life Goldsmith's income was 
about four hundred pounds a year. With a little economy this 
would have enabled him to live in comfort and ease. But his 
extravagance and heedless benevolence left him in debt. 

The end came April 3, 1774. When the news was brought 
to Burke, he burst into tears. Sir Joshua Reynolds laid aside 
his pencil. But more significant than all was the lamentation 
of the old and the infirm on his stairs — helpless creatures to 
whose supplications he had never turned a deaf ear. Johnson 
wrote his epitaph, in which it is said that he '• left scarcely any 
style of writing untouched, and touched nothing that he did 
not adorn." In the words of Thackeray, " Think of him reck- 
less, thriftless, vain if you like — but merciful, gentle, generous, 
full of love and pity. He passes out of our life, and goes to 
render his account beyond it. Think of the poor pensioners 
weeping at his grave ; think of the noble spirits that admired 
and deplored him ; think of the righteous pen that wrote his 



464 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

epitaph — and the wonderful and unanimous response of affec- 
tion with whicli the world has paid back the love he gave 
it. His humor delighting us still ; his song fresh and beautiful 
as when he first charmed with it ; his words in all our mouths ; 
his very weaknesses beloved and familiar — his benevolent 
spirit seems still to smile upon us ; to do gentle kindnesses ; to 
succor with sweet charity ; to caress, soothe, and forgive ; to 
plead with the fortunate for the unhappy and the poor." 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 465 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain ; 

Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain, 

Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 

And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed : 

Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 

Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, 

How often have I loitered o'er thy green. 

Where humble happiness endeared each scene ! 

How often have I paused on every charm, 

The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm. 

The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 

Tiie decent church that topt the neighbouring hill. 

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade. 

For talking age and whispering lovers made ! 

How often have I blest the coming day, 

Wlien toil remitting lent its turn to play. 

And all the village train from labour free, 

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree. 

While many a pastime circled in the shade. 

The young contending as the old surveyed ; 

And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground. 

And sleights of art and feats of strength went round. 

And still, as each repeated pleasure tired. 

Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired ; 

The dancing pair that simply sought renown 

By holding out to tire each other down ; 

The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, 

While secret laughter tittered round the place ; 

The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love, 

The matron's glance that would those looks reprove. 

These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these. 

With sweet succession, taught even toil to please : 

These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed : 

These were thy charms — but all these charms are fled. 

Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; 



466 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 

And desolation saddens all thy green : 

One onl\- master grasps the whole domain, 

And half, a tillage stints thy smiling plain. 4° 

No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, 

But. choked with sedges, works its weedy way; 

Along thy glades, a solitary guest, 

The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; 

Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 

And tires their echoes with unvaried cries ; 

Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all. 

And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall; 

And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 

Far, far away thy children leave the land. 5° 

111 fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, 
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : 
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; 
A breath can make them, as a breath has made: 
But a bold peasantry, their countr3''s pride. 
When once destroyed, can never be supplied. 

A time there was, ere England's griefs began, 
When every rood of ground maintained its man ; 
For him light labour spread her wholesome store, 
Just gave what life required, but gave no more : 6o 

His best companions, innocence and health ; 
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 

But times are altered ; trade's unfeeling train 
Usurp the land and dispossess the swain ; 
Along the lawn, wdiere scattered hamlets rose, 
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose, 
And every want to opulence allied. 
And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
These gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 
Those calm desires that asked but little room, 70 

Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene, 
Lived in each look, and brightened all the green ; 
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, 
And rural mirth and manners are no more. 

Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour, 
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 467 

Here, as I take my solitar}^ rounds 

Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds, 

And, many a year elapsed, return to view 

Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, 80 

Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, 

Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 

In all my wanderings round this world of care. 
In all my griefs — and God has given my share — 
I still had hopes,' my latest hours to crown, 
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
To husband out life's taper at the close. 
And keep the flame from wasting by repose : 
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still. 

Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, 9° 

Around my fire an evening group to draw. 
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; 
And, as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue 
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, 
1 still had hopes, my long vexations past, 
Here to return — and die at home at last. 

O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, 
Retreats from care, that never must be mine, 
How happy he who crowns in shades like these 
A youth of labour with an age of ease ; 100 

Who quits a world where strong temptations try. 
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly! 
For him no wretches, born to work and weep. 
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep ; 
No surly porter stands in guilty state. 
To spurn imploring famine from the gate : 
But on he moves to meet his latter end. 
Angels around befriending Virtue's friend ; 
Bends to the grave with unperceived decay, 
While resignation gently slopes the way ; no 

And, all his prospects brightening to the last. 
His heaven commences ere the world be past ! 

Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose. 
There, as I past with careless steps and slow. 
The mintjling notes came softened from below: 



4^8 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, 

The sober herd that lowed to meet their young, 

The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 

The playful children just let loose from school, 120 

The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, 

And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ; — 

These all in sweet confusion sought the shade. 

And filled each pause the nightingale had made. 

But now the sounds of population fail. 

No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, 

No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread, 

For all the bloomy flush of life is fled. 

All but yon widowed, solitary thing. 

That feebly bends beside the plashy spring : 130 

She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, 

To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 

To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, 

To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn ; 

She only left of all the harmless train, 

The sad historian of the pensive plain. 

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled. 
And still where many a garden flower grows wild ; 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 140 

A man he was to all the country dear. 
And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; 
Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place ; 
Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power, 
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour ; 
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, 
More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise. 
His house was known to all the vagrant train ; 
He chid their wanderings but relieved their pain: 150 

The long remembered beggar was his guest. 
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; 
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed ; 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay. 
Sat by his fire, and talked the night away, 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 469 

Wept o'er his wounds or tales of sorrow done, 

Shouldered his crutch and shewed how fields were won. 

Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, 

And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 160 

Careless their merits or their faults to scan. 

His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
And e'en his failings leaned to Virtue's side ; 
But in his duty prompt at every call. 
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all ; 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies. 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay. 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 170 

Beside the bed where parting life was laid, 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed, 
The reverend champion stood. At his control 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 
And his last faltering accents whispered praise. 

At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
His looks adorned the venerable place ; 
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway. 
And fools, who came to scoff", remained to pray. 180 

The service past, around the pious man. 
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 
E'en children followed with endearing wile. 
And plucked his gown to share the good man's smile. 
His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest ; 
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest : 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 
As some tall cliff" that lifts its awful form. 

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 19° 

Tho' round its breast the rolling clouds are spread. 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, 
With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay. 
There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule. 
The village master taught his little school. 



470 EXGLISH LITERATURE. 

A man severe he was, and stern to view: 

I knew him well, and every truant knew : 

Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace 

The day's disasters in his morning face : 200 

Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee 

At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 

Full well the busy whisper circling round 

Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned. 

Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, 

The love he bore to learning was in fault ; 

The village all declared how much he knew : 

'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too ; 

Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, 

And even the ston*- ran that he could gauge : 210 

In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, 

For, even tho' vanquished, he could argue still : 

While words of learned length and thundering sound 

Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 

/Vnd still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, 

That one small head could carry all he knew. 

But past is all his fame. The very spot 
Where many a time he triumphed is forgot. 
Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, 
W^here once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 220 

Now lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, 
Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired. 
Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, 
And news much older than their ale went round. 
Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
The parlour splendours of that festive place : 
The white-washed wall, the nicely sanded floor. 
The varnished clock that clicked behind the door ; 
The chest contrived a double debt to pay. 

A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 230 

The pictures placed for ornament and use, 
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose; 
The hearth, except when winter chill' d the day. 
With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel gay : 
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for shew. 
Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 471 

Vain transitory splendours I could not all 
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall? 
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 

An hour's importance to the poor man's heart 240 

Thither no more the peasant shall repair 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 
Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear; 
The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; 
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, 
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 250 

Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
These simple blessings of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart. 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art ; 
Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play. 
The soul adopts, and owns their first born sway ; 
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined. 
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade. 
With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed — 260 

In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain. 
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; 
And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, 
The heart distrusting asks if this be joy. 

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey 
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 
'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand 
Between a splendid and a happy land. 
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, 
And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; 270 

Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound. 
And rich men flock from all the world around. 
Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name 
That leaves our useful products still the same. 
Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride 
Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; 



472 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, 

Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds : 

The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth 

Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their growth ; 2S0 

His seat, where solitary sports are seen, 

Indignant spurns the cottage from the green: 

Around the world each needful product flies, 

For all the luxuries the world supplies ; 

While thus the land adorned for pleasure all 

In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. 

As some fair female unadorned and plain. 
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, 
Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies, 
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; 290 

But when those charms are past, for charms are frail, 
When time advances, and when lovers fail. 
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless. 
In all the glaring impotence of dress. 
Thus fares the land by luxury betrayed : 
In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed, 
But verging to decline, its splendours rise ; 
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise : 
While, scourged by famine from the smiling land, 
The mournful peasant leads his humble band, 3°° 

And while he sinks, without one arm to save. 
The country blooms — a garden and a grave. 

Where then, ah ! where, shall poverty reside, 
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? 
If to some common's fenceless limits strayed 
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, 
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide. 
And even the bare-worn common is denied. 

If to the city sped — what waits him there? 
To see profusion that he must not share ; 310 

To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; 
To see those joys the sons of pleasure know 
Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. 
Here while the courtier glitters in brocade. 
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 473 

Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, 

There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 

The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign 

Here, richly decked, admits the gorgeous train : 320 

Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, 

The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 

Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! 

Sure these denote one universal joy ! 

Are these thy serious thoughts.-^ — Ah, turn thine eyes 

Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. 

She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, 

Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; 

Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, 

Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn : Zl'^ 

Now lost to all ; her friends, her virtue fled. 

Near her betrayers door she lays her head, 

And, pinched with cold, and shrinking from the shower, 

With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, 

When idly first, ambitious of the town, 

She left her wheel and robes of country brown. 

Do thine, sweet Auburn, — thine, the loveliest train, — 
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? 
Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, 
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread ! 34° 

Ah, no ! To distant climes, a dreary scene, 
Where half the convex world intrudes between, 
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go. 
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. 
Far difierent there from all that charm'd before 
The various terrors of that horrid shore ; 
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, 
And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 
Those matted woods, where birds forget to sing. 
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; 35° 

Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned, 
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; 
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, 
And savage men more murderous still than they ; 



474 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, 

Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. 

Far different these from every former scene, 

The cooling brook, the grassy vested green, 360 

The breezy covert of the warbling grove, 

That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. 

Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloom"d that parting day. 
That called them from their native walks away ; 
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 
Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last, 
And took a long farewell, and wished in vain 
For seats like these beyond the western main. 
And shuddering still to face the distant deep. 
Returned and wept, and still returned to weep. 37° 

The good old sire that first prepared to go 
To new found worlds, and wept for others* woe; 
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, 
He only wished for worlds beyond the grave 
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 
The fond companion of his helpless years, 
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, 
And left a lovers for a father's arms. 
With loude'r plaints the mother spoke her woes, 
And blest the cot where every pleasure rose, 38° 

And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a tear, 
And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear. 
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 
In all the silent manliness of grief. 

O luxury ! thou curst by Heaven's decree, 
How ill exchanged are things like these for thee ! 
How do thv potions, with insidious joy. 
Diffuse their pleasure only to destroy ! 
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown. 
Boast of a florid vigour not their own. 39° 

At every draught more large and large they grow, 
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe : 
Till sapped their strength, and every part unsound, 
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 

Even now the devastation is begun. 
And half the business of destruction done ; 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 475 * 

Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, : 

I see the rural virtues leave the land. : 

Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, i 

That idly waiting flaps with every gale, 400 I 

Downward they move, a melancholy band, j 

Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. \ 

Contented toil, and hospitable care, . 

And kind connubial tenderness, are there ; \ 

And piety with wishes placed above, I 

And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 'i 

And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, • 

Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ; j 

Unfit in these degenerate times of shame I 

To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame ; 410 

Dear charming nympli, neglected and decried, 

I\Iy shame in crowds, my solitary pride ; j 

Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, ] 

That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so ; 

Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel. 

Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well! | 

Farewell, and O! where'er thy voice be tried, • 

On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, 

Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, j 

Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 420 1 

Still let thy voice, prevailing over time. 

Redress the rigours of the inclement clime ; 

Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain ; ; 

Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; ■ 

Teach him, that states of nativ^ strength possessed, 

Tho' very poor, may still be very blessed : j 

That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay. 

As ocean sweeps the laboured mole away : 

While self-dependent power can time defy, j 

As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 430 \ 



476 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



NOTES TO THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

{Tlie 7iumbers refer to lifi-es.) 

For general remarks on the poem, see the sketch of Goldsmith. 

1. Auburn = Lissoy probably, though with the addition of imaginative 
details. 

2. Swain = peasant. A favorite word among the poets of the last cen- 
tury, by whom it was used in a somewhat vague sense as "shepherd," 
" lover," or " young man." 

4. Parting =^ departing. For the same use of the word, see the first 
line of Gray's " Elegy." 

5. Bowers = dwellings. By poets often used somewhat vaguely. 

6. Seats = abodes. 
10. Cot— cottage. 

12. Decent = neat, becoming. 

13. Haiuthorii. — The hawthorn bushes around Lissoy have been cut to 
pieces to furnish souvenirs of the locality. 

16. Remitting = ceasing for a time. 

17. Train. — See note to line 6 of " The Cotter's Saturday Night." 
19. Circled^ went round. See line 22. 

21. Gambol frolicked =^ s^oxiive. trick was played in a frolicsome manner. 

35. Lawn^= plain. See line i. 

37. Tyrant = Some wealthy land-owner. Goldsmith deplores the ac- 
cumulation of land in the hands of great land-owners, to be used by them, 
not for careful tillage, but in great measure for ostentation and pleasure. 

39. One only master = one sole master. 

40. Stints = deprives of fruitfulness and beauty. 

43. Glades = open spaces, usually low and moist or marshy. 

45. Walks = range, region. — Lap7ving — ■:x wading bird of the plover 
family. See Webster. 

49. Shrinking, etc. — Owing to the absorption of the land by great pro- 
prietors, the peasantry were forced to emigrate. 

52. Decay = decrease in number. 

55. Goldsmith is here partly right and partly wrong. "A bold peas- 
antry" is undoubtedly necessary to the highest welfare nf a country. But 
when, in the following lines, he inveighs against commerce and manufacture, 



NOTES TO THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 477 

he makes a mistake. These do not injure a country, but increase its wealth, 
population, and intelligence. When, however, he denounces luxury, which 
unfortunately he sometimes confounds with trade, he has the approval of all 
right-thinking men. 

63. Traders unfeeling train = those enriched by commerce and manu- 
facture. 

81. Busy train = thronging reminiscences of the past. 
85. These lines express a real wish of Goldsmith's, but one that was des- 
tined not to be fulfilled. The reality of the desire renders these lines pathetic. 
88. By repose modifies keep. 
100, Age = old age. 

105. Guilty state. — State here means livery; and it is called guilty 
because regarded by the poet as an evidence of criminal avarice and luxury. 

107. //<? = the person spoken of in line 99. — Latter end ^^ -^ Biblical 
phrase meaning death. See Prov. xix. 20. 
no. Slopes = eases. 
115. Careless — without care or anxiety. 

121. Bayed =ha.xked at. O. Fr. al/ayer, to bark. 

122. 5/0/^^= indicated. 

123. 7Vie s/iade = the shadows of " evening's close." 
126. Fluctuate in the gale = float on the breezes. 

1 28. Bloomy = blooming, 

130. /'A/j//)' = puddle-like. 

132. Mantling =^ covering as with a cloak or mantle. 

136. yev/^/rv = expressing thoughtfulness with sadness. 

137. Copse = a thicket of underwood. Cf. coppice. 

139. Disclose = reveal, mark. 

140. Mansion =t\oyLse, habitation; usually one of some size or pre- 
tensions. 

142. Passing rich = more than rich, very rich. 

144. /'/c/Cd' = post, position. 

149. pTTcrrrt-;;/ /r^m = wandering company; tramps. 

155. Broken = broken down by age, sickness, or some other cause. 

159. Glo7a = kindle with interest or enthusiasm. 

171. Parting. — See line 4. 

189. As some tall cliff, etc. —This has been pronounced one of the 
sublimest similes in the English language. 

194. Furze =^ thorny evergreen shrub. It is called '* unprofitably 
gay " because, in spite of its beautiful yellow flowers, it is of no practical use. 

196. The village master = Paddy Byrne. See sketch of Goldsmith. 

199. Boding ^=^ foreboding. 

209. Terms and tides = seasons and times. 



47^ ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

2IO. Gauge = measure the capacity of vessels. 

221. Niit-bro7un r/rc?//^^/-!/^ ^ draughts of nut-brown ale. With his con- 
vivial habits, we may be sure that Goldsmith was not a stranger to the scenes 
he here describes. 

229. Double debt to pay = to serve a double use. 

231. For oi'iiajjient and tise. — They were probably used to hide defects 
in the walls. 

232. Twelve good rules. — These are W'Orth repeating: i. Urge no 
healths. 2. Profane no divine ordinances. 3. Touch no state matters. 4. 
Reveal no secrets. 5. Pick no quarrels. 6. Make no comparisons. 7. 
Maintain no ill opinions. 8. Keep no bad company. 9. Encourage no vice. 
10. Make no long meals. 11. Repeat no grievances. 12. Lay no wagers. 
— Game of goose ^= the game of the fox and the geese. 

236. Chimney = fireplace. 

243. Farmer''s neius. — His visits to the neighboring markets would 
naturally make him the newsman. — Barbe?''s tale. — The endless loquacity 
of barbers is a continual theme for jest or disgust among the writers of the 
time. 

244. Woodman'' s ballad = perhaps some tale of Robin Hood. 
248. Mantling bliss = foam-covered ale. 

257. Vacant = unembarrassed with care. 

259. PojHp = procession. 

269. Freighted = loaded for shipment. 

276. Poor is the object of supplied. 

285. /4// = entirely. 

293. To bless ^ to bestow her heart and hand. 

300. Band= family. 

305. Commo7i = enclosed tract of land belonging, not to an individual, 
but to the public. 

316. Artist ^ 3.Ytisa.n. 

319. Dome = palace. 

321. Blazing square., that is, filled with torches, which the rich used 
before the introduction of street-lights. 

344. Altama ^ Altamaha in Georgia. " The various terrors " enumer- 
ated are apt to provoke a smile. 

355. Crouching tigers. — These exist in Georgia only in the poet's 
imagination. 

403. Shore., strand. — By strand the poet means the line of sand next 
the sea; by shore., the ground above the sand. 

418. Torno^s cliffs = the heights around Lake Tornea in the north of 
Sweden. — Pambaniarca = a mountain near Quito in South America. 



SAMUEL JOHNSON. 479 



SAMUEL JOHNSON. 

There is no other English author with whom we are so 
intimately acquainted. Through the hero-worship of his biog- 
rapher Boswell we are permitted to see and hear him as he 
appeared in the circle of his most intimate friends. We get 
close to the man as he actually was. We know his prejudices, 
foibles, and peculiarities ; and, strange to say, this minute ac- 
quaintance does not lessen, but increase our admiration and 
love. He was a piece of rugged Alpine manhood. But his 
towering greatness was softened by a benevolence that never 
failed to reach out a helping hand to the needy ; and his 
brusqueness of manner was relieved by an integrity of charac- 
ter that scorned every form of hypocrisy. In the midst of so 
much pettiness and cant it is delightful to contemplate his 
sturdy uprightness and independence ; as Carlyle said of 
Luther, " a true son of nature and fact, for whom these cen- 
turies, and many that are to come yet, will be thankful to 
Heaven." 

His peculiarities of person and manner are well known. 
He was ponderous in body as in intellect. A scrofulous affec- 
tion, for which Queen Anne had laid royal hands upon him, 
had disfigured his face, and also tinged his mind, perhaps, with 
whim and melancholy. He had a rolling walk, and made it a 
habit to touch the posts as he passed. His appetite for tea 
was enormous ; and he ate with an absorbing interest that 
might properly be called ravenous. His sight was defective ; 
but when Reynolds painted him with a pen held close to his 
eye, he protested that he did not want to descend to posterity 
as "blinking Sam." He was singularly insensible to music; 
and when a musical performance was praised as being difficult, 



48o ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

he simply said that he wislied it had been impossible. After he 
had published his dictionary he was once with a friend at the 
top of a hill. " I haven't had a roll for a long time," said the 
great lexicographer; and, emptying his pockets, he stretched 
himself on the ground, turning over and over, like a barrel, till 
he reached the bottom. 

But in spite of physical defects and eccentric manners, he 
dominated, by the sheer force of genius, the most brilliant club 
of London, and became the most imposing literary figure of his 
age. In conversation he was ready and eloquent, though apt 
to bear down an opponent by mere vociferation or savage per- 
sonality. "There is no arguing with Johnson," said Gold- 
smith; "for if his pistol misses fire, he knocks you down with 
the but-end of it." He looked upon conversation as an intel- 
lectual wrestling, and delighted in it as a skilled and powerful 
athlete. " That fellow," he once said when sick, " calls forth 
all my powers. Were I to see Burke now, it would kill me." 

He sometimes offended his friends by his rude personal- 
ities; but his repentance was so prompt and genuine that he 
was speedily forgiven. He set a high value on friendship, 
which, he said, one ought to keep in constant repair. " I look 
upon a day as lost," he said in his later years, " in which I 
do not make a new acquaintance." With all his clearness of 
judgment and honesty of purpose, he was sometimes narrow 
and prejudiced in his opinions. Not everything he says is to 
be taken as true, though expressed in the most dogmatic way. 
"No man but a blockhead," he said, "ever wrote except for 
money." His principles as a Tory and Churchman sometimes 
warped his literary criticism. Upon the death of Dr. Bathurst, 
a friend of his earlier years, he said, " Dear Bathurst was a 
man to my very heart's content : he hated a fool, and he hated 
a rogue, and he hated a Whig ; he was a very good hater." 

Samuel Johnson was born at Lichfield in 1709, the son of 
a bookseller of considerable ability and reputation. As a boy 
he was fond of athletic exercises, in which he excelled ; and he 
possessed a constitutional fearlessness that made him a natural 



SAMUEL JOHNSON. 48 1 

leader. At the grammar school of his native town he acquired 
the rudiments of Latin under a stern discipline. Though he 
afterwards complained of the severity of his teachers, he re- 
mained a believer in the virtues of the rod. "A child that is 
flogged," he said, " gets his task, and there's an end on't ; 
whereas by exciting emulation and comparisons of superiority, 
you lay the foundations of lasting mischief; you make brothers 
and sisters hate each other." 

He left school at sixteen, and spent the next two years 
at home, probably learning his father's business. He con- 
tinued his studies, became a good Latin scholar, and accu- 
mulated large stores of general information. He was a vora- 
cious reader. In 1728 he entered Pembroke College, Oxford, 
with an unusual store of knowledge. He suffered from pov- 
erty ; and at the end of three years he left the University with- 
out taking a degree. Attacks of melancholy sometimes drove 
him to the verge of insanity. When reminded in after-years that 
he had been "a gay and frolicsome fellow," he replied, "Ah, 
sir, I was mad and violent. It was bitterness which they mis- 
took for frolic. I was miserably poor, and I thought to fight 
my way by my literature and my wit ; so I disregarded all 
power and all authority." In his poverty he remained proud ; 
and when a new pair of shoes was placed at his door by some 
benevolent person, he ungraciously flung them away. 

In 173 1 he left the University to make his way in the world. 
For the next thirty years his hfe was a constant struggle with 
poverty and hardship. Though of a deeply religious nature, he 
did not turn to the church for a living. He tried teaching, and 
failed. At the age of twenty-six he married a fat, gaudy widow 
of forty-eight. To Johnson's defective sight she always re- 
mained a "pretty creature," while she had discernment enough 
to see the worth and ability of her husband. Though his 
declaration that " it was a love match on both sides " is apt to 
meet with some incredulity, the marriage did not prove an un- 
happy one, and there is something pathetic in the tenderness 
with which he always referred to her. 



482 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

In 1737 he went to London with three or four guineas and 
half of the tragedy of *' Irene " in his pocket. Literature at this 
time did not offer an inviting field. It generally meant poorly 
paid hack-work for publishers. Long afterwards, in recalling 
the trials of this period, Johnson burst into tears. One of the 
publishers to whom he applied for work advised him, after sur- 
veying his athletic frame, to get a " porter's knot and carry 
trunks." He was often in want of food, clothes, and lodging. 
In these days of precarious livelihood he was befriended by 
Harry Hervey, toward whom he ever afterwards cherished a 
lively sense of gratitude. " Harry Hervey," he said shortly 
before his death, " was a vicious man, but very kind to me. If 
you call a dog Hervey, I shall love him." 

Notwithstanding his dependent condition, he did not become 
obsequious. His feeling of manly independence and self-re- 
spect never deserted him. He was employed once by Osborne 
to make a catalogue of the Harleian Library. Reproved by 
his employer in an offensive manner for negligence, Johnson 
knocked him down with a huge Greek folio. 

The year after his arrival in London we find him at work on 
the Ge?itleman' s Magazine, a periodical of wide circulation. 
His most important contributions were his reports of the pro- 
ceedings of Parliament, which the publisher, as a measure of 
precaution, sent forth as " Reports of the Debates of the Senate 
of Lilliput." He was furnished with notes, generally meagre 
and inaccurate ; and on these as a basis it was his business to 
write the speeches. He did the work marvellously well. Many 
years afterwards one of Pitt's speeches was pronounced superior 
to anything in Demosthenes. Johnson replied, " I wrote that 
speech in a garret in Exeter Street." When his impartiality 
was once praised in a friendly company, he answered with 
charming frankness, " That is not quite true ; I saved appear- 
ances pretty well, but I took care that the Whig dogs should 
not have the best of it." 

In 1738 appeared a poem entitled*' London," an imitation of 
the third satire of Juvenal. It met with a favorable reception ; 



SAMUEL JOHNSON. ' 483 

and though it brought the author only ten guineas in money, it 
served to direct attention to him as a man of genius. It was 
pubhshed anonymously ; but Pope declared on reading it that 
the author could not long remain concealed. Its general theme 
is found in the following lines, which were written doubtless 
with all the conviction of bitter experience : — 

" This mournful truth is everywhere confessed, 
Slow rises worth by poverty depressed; 
But here more slow, where all are slaves to gold; 
Where looks are merchandise and smiles are sold; 
Where, won by bribes, by flatteries implored. 
The groom retails the favors of his lord." 

Another work appearing in 1744 added much to Johnson's 
reputation. One of his Grub Street acquaintances was Richard 
Savage, a man of noble birth but profligate life. In spite of an 
insolent manner, he was of agreeable companionship and wide 
experience. He had passed through great vicissitudes of for- 
tune ; and on his death, Johnson wrote his life in a masterly 
manner. '' No finer specimen of literary biography," says 
Macaulay, '' existed in any language, living or dead." It had 
the effect of pretty well establishing Johnson's fame. 

In 1747 he was applied to by several eminent booksellers to 
prepare a " Dictionary of the English Language." The remu- 
neration agreed upon was fifteen hundred guineas. The plan 
was issued and addressed to Lord Chesterfield, the most pol- 
ished man of his time. This distinguished lord had at one 
time given the burly scholar encouragement ; but repelled at 
last by his boorishness of manner, he had politely shaken him 
oflf. He characterized Johnson as a " respectable Hottentot, 
who throws his meat any where but down his throat." " This 
absurd person," he says again, " was not only uncouth in man- 
ners and warm in dispute, but behaved exactly in the same way 
to superiors, equals, and inferiors ; and therefore, by a neces- 
sary consequence, absurdly to two of the three." Johnson's 
opinion of Chesterfield contained just as little flattery. He 
denounced that nobleman's " Letters " as teaching the morals 



484 'EXGLISH LITERATURE. 

of a harlot and the manners of a dancing-master. At another 
time he said. •' I thouo-ht this man had been a lord amono: 
Avits : but I lind he is only a wit among lords." 

After seven years of drudgery Johnson brought his work to 
a close. In hopes of having it dedicated to himself. Chester- 
field took occasion to recommend it in two letters published 
in the World, a periodical to which men of rank and fashion 
frequently contributed. The proud scholar was not to be 
appeased: and his reply was terrific — '"the far-famed blast of 
doom proclaiming into the ear of Lord Chesterfield," says Car- 
lyle. •' and through him of the listening Avorld, that patronage 
should be no more."' "Is not a patron, my lord." ^\TOte 
Johnson, "'one who looks with unconcern on a man struggling 
for lite in the water, and when he has reached the ground en- 
cumbers him with help ? The notice which you have been 
pleased to take of my labors, had it been earlier, had been 
kind : but it has been delayed till I am indift'erent. and cannot 
enjoy it; till I am solitary, and cannot impart it; till I am 
known, and do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical asper- 
ity not to confess obligations where no benefit has been re- 
ceived, or to be unwilling that the public should consider me as 
owing that to a patron which Providence has enabled me to do 
for myself." 

Johnson defined a lexicographer as a "harmless drudge."' 
This is fairly descriptive of the nature of his work, which con- 
sisted in collecting, denning, and illustrating all the words in 
the language. Judged by present high standards, the work 
is defective. Scientific etymology was not yet in existence. 
But it far surpassed amthing before it. and was received with 
enthusiasm by the English people. 

Johnson's energies were not wholly expended on the di*udg- 
er)' of the " Dictionary." In 1749 he published another imita- 
tion of Juvenal entitled the ■•Vanity of Human Wishes." It 
is written with much vigor, and in passages surpasses the ori- 
ginal. The vanity of the warrior's pride is illustrated by 
Charles XII. of Sweden : — 



SAMUEL JOHNSON. 485 

*' He left a name at which the world grew pale, 
To point a moral, or adorn a tale." 

To the ambitious scholar he says : — 

"Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes. 
And pause awhile from letters to be wise ; 
There mark what ills the scholar's life assail, 
Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the jail. 
See nations, slowly wise, and meanly just, 
To buried merit raise the tardy bust. 
If dreams yet flatter, once again attend, 
Hear Lydiat's life and Galileo's end." 

The poem brought him little besides a growing reputation. 
A few days after the publication of the ''Vanity of Human 
Wishes," his tragedy of " Irene " was brought upon the stage 
by Garrick. It was heard with respectful attention. After 
running nine nights, it was withdrawn, and has never since 
been acted. "When Johnson writes tragedy," said Garrick, 
" declamation roars and passion sleeps ; when Shakespeare 
wrote he dipped his pen in his own heart." Johnson took 
the failure of his tragedy with philosophical calmness. It 
brought him all together about three hundred pounds, in which 
no doubt he found substantial consolation. 

In 1750 he began the publication of the Rambler^ a peri- 
odical resembling the Spectator. It appeared twice a week 
for two years. The range of subjects is wide and interesting. 
The prevailing tone is serious and moral. Though coldly re- 
ceived at the time of first issue, yet afterwards collected into 
volumes, the papers had an extraordinary circulation. No 
fewer than ten editions appeared during the author's life. 

His style is characterized by an artificial stateliness, and 
a preponderance of Latin words. " I have labored," he says 
in the closing paper, " to refine our language to grammatical 
purity, and to clear it from colloquial barbarisms, licentious 
idioms, and irregular combinations. Something, perhaps, I 
have added to the elegance of its construction, and something to 



486 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

the harmony of its cadence," He lacked the delicate touch of 
Addison. Of his moral aim he says : " The essays profes- 
sedly serious, if I have been able to execute my own inten- 
tions, will be found exactly conformable to the precepts of 
Christianity, without any accommodation to the licentiousness 
and levity of the present age. I therefore look back on this 
part of my work with pleasure, which no praise or blame of 
man can diminish or augment. I shall never envy the honors 
which wit and learning obtain in any other cause, if I can be 
numbered among the writers who have given ardor to virtue, 
and confidence to truth." The Ramhkr is a delightful book 
with which to spend an occasional half-hour. It is filled with 
sober wisdom, and some of the papers are singularly beautiful. 

In 1759 Johnson's mother died at Lichfield at the age of 
ninety. He was still involved in financial troubles. In order 
to gain money for her funeral expenses, he wrote in a single 
week the story of '' Rasselas." It is his most popular work. 
Its main theme is announced in the opening sentence : "Ye 
who listen with credulity to the whispers of fancy, and pursue 
with eagerness the phantoms of hope ; who expect that age will 
perform the prom'ises of youth, and that the deficiences of the 
present day will be supplied by the morrow ; attend to the his- 
tory of Rasselas, prince of Abyssinia." The story makes no 
pretensions to historical accuracy; the x\byssinians brought 
before us are in reality highly cultivated Europeans. But it is 
written with Johnson's peculiar eloquence, and exhibits fully 
his moral and reflective temperament. 

The year 1762 saw an important change in Johnson's con- 
dition. He received a pension of three hundred pounds a 
year. In his '" Dictionary '' he had defined a pension as '' gen- 
erally understood to mean pay given to a state hireling for 
treason to his country." Being assured that he did not come 
within the definition, and that the pension was accorded in 
recognition of past services, he accepted it after some hesi- 
tation. It placed him for the first time in circumstances of 
independence, and allowed him to indulge his constitutional 



SAMUEL JOHNSON. 487 

indolence. He talked at night and slept during the day, 
rising at two in the afternoon. '' I cannot now curse the 
House of Hanover," he said in appreciative reference to his 
pension ; " but 1 think that the pleasure of cursing the House 
of Hanover and drinking King James's health, all amply over- 
balanced by three hundred pounds a year." 

No longer driven by necessity, his pen became less busy. 
His principal influence was exerted through conversation. 
His colloquial powers were of the highest order. In the Club, 
which included, among others, Goldsmith, Burke, Reynolds, 
and Garrick, he was easily first. The opinion of the Club 
carried great weight ; and for a time his position might be 
described as literary dictator of England. Meeting the King 
one day in the royal library, he was asked by his Majesty if 
he intended to give the world any more of his compositions. 
'' I think I have written enough," said Johnson. " And I should 
think so too," replied his Majesty, "if you had not written 
so well " — a compliment of which Johnson was very proud. 

In 1773 Johnson made a journey to the Hebrides. He 
was kindly received on his journey through Scotland. His 
prejudices against the Scotch were softened to a harmless 
foible. He made inquiries concerning the poems of Ossian. 
He denounced Macpherson's work as a forgery. Receiving 
a furious and threatening letter from the author of " Ossian," 
Johnson replied : " I hope I shall never be deterred from 
detecting what I think a cheat by the menaces of a ruffian." 
In anticipation of personal violence, he provided himself with 
a heavy stick, of which, had occasion offered, he would doubt- 
less have made vigorous use. 

The results of this trip are given in a pleasant volume 
entitled " Journey to the Hebrides." The style is, as usual, 
elaborate and stately. Writing to an intimate friend from the 
Hebrides, he says with colloquial ease and pith, " When we 
were taken up-stairs, a dirty fellow bounced out of the bed on 
which one of us was to lie." In his book this incident is trans- 
lated into his artificial literary style as follows : " Out of one of 



488 EXGLISH LITERATURE. 

the beds on which we were to repose, started up, at our en- 
trance, a man black as a C3TI0PS from the forge. "' 

In 1777 a number of London booksellers decided to publish 
a collection of English poetry. Johnson was asked to prepare 
the introducton* biographical and critical sketches. The result 
was his " Lives of the Poets," the W'ork, perhaps, by which 
he wall be longest known. In the judgment of Macaulay it is 
more interestmg than any novel. In many respects it is an ad- 
mirable production. Without much patient research after bio- 
graphical material, it gives the leading facts in the life of each 
poet, together with a masterly analysis of his character and a 
critical examination of his w^orks. It is less ponderous in style 
than his earlier wTitings. That it is independent in judgment 
goes without saying. His criticisms, alw^ays w^orth attention, 
are not always just. He was sometimes influenced by his pre- 
judices, as in the case of Milton and Gray ; and he attached 
too much importance to the logical and didactic elements of 
poetiT- He had no ear for the music of poetry ; and that 
subtle, ethereal quality, which raises it above prose, could not 
be grasped by his clumsy critical principles. 

One of the great charms of the " Lives of the Poets " con- 
sists in the shrewd obser\^ations upon life and character with 
w^hich the book abounds. Discussing Diyden's financial diffi- 
culties, he remarks : '' It is w^ell known that he seldom lives 
frugally who lives by chance. Hope is always liberal, and 
they that trust her promises make little scruple of revelling 
to-day on the profits of the morrows" The w^ork contains the 
materials for a collection of maxims as interestmg as those of 
La Rochefoucauld, and much more truthful. '' Very near to 
admiration," he says, "is the wish to admire. "" The rich treas- 
ures of wisdom which long experience and reflection had stored 
in his spacious mind are scattered through his pages with 
lavish hand. 

Much of interest in Johnson's life is necessarily omitted: 
the strange crowed of dependants he maintained at his home : 
his relation with the Thrales : a s^reat store of interesting 



SAMUEL JOHNSON. 489 

anecdote preserved to us by his satellite Boswell. Though 
for a time oppressed with a dread of death, he met it, as the 
end drew near, with manly courage. In his last sickness he 
was visited by many of his old friends. " I am afraid," said 
Burke, " that so many of us must be oppressive to you." — " No, 
sir, it is not so," replied Johnson ; " and I must be in a wretched 
state indeed when your company would not be a delight to 
me." — "You have always been too good to me," said Burke 
with a breaking voice, as he parted from his old friend for the 
last time. Now and then there was a flash of the old vigor 
and humor. Describing a man who sat up with him, he said : 
" Sir, the fellow's an idiot ; he's as awkward as a turnspit when 
first put into the wheel, and as sleepy as a dormouse." His 
last words were a benediction. A young lady begged his 
blessing. " God bless you, my dear," he said with infinite 
tenderness. Nothing could have been more characteristic of 
his great, benevolent heart. He peacefuly died Dec. 13, 1784. 
He had once playfully said to Goldsmith, when visiting the 
poets' corner of Westminster Abbey, 

" Forsitan et nostrum nomen miscebitur istis," 1 

The prediction and the wish were fulfilled. And among 
the wise and great who repose there, there is no one whose 
massive intellect, honest worth, and great heart command our 
admiration and love in a higher degree than Samuel Johnson. 

1 Perhaps our names will be mingled with them. 



490 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

AKENSIDK 

{From yohnsofi's "Lives of the Poets.''''') 

Mark Akenside ^ was born on the 9th of November, 1721, at 
Newcastle-upon-Tyne. His father, Mark, was a butcher, of the Presby- 
terian sect ; his mother's name was Mary Lumsden. He received the 
first part of his education at the grammar school of Newcastle ; and 
was afterwards instructed by Mr. Wilson, who kept a private academy. 

At the age of eighteen he was sent to Edinburgh, that he might 
qualify himself for the office of a dissenting minister,^ and received 
some assistance from the fund ^ which the dissenters employ in edu- 
cating young men of scanty fortune. But a wider view of the world 
opened other scenes, and prompted other hopes ; he determined to 
study physic,"^ and repaid that contribution, which, being received for 
a different purpose, he justly thought dishonorable to retain. 

Whether, when he resolved not to be a dissenting minister, he 
ceased to be a dissenter, I know not. He certainly retained an un- 
necessary and outrageous zeal ^ for what he called liberty ; a zeal which 
sometimes disguises from the world, and not rarely from the mind 
which it possesses, an envious desire of plundering wealth or degrad- 
ing greatness ; and of which the immediate tendency is innovation and 
anarchy, an impetuous eagerness to subvert and confound, with very 
little care what shall be established. 

Akenside was one of those poets who have felt very early the 
motions of genius, and one of those students who have very early 
stored their memories with sentiments and images. Many of his per- 
formances were produced in his youth; and his greatest work, " The 
Pleasures of Imagination,"^ appeared in 1744. I have heard Dodsley, 
by whom it was published, relate, that when the copy was offered him, 
the price demanded for it, which was a hundred and twenty pounds, 
being such as he was not inclined to give precipitately, he carried the 
work to Pope, who, having looked into it, advised him not to make a 
niggardly offer, for " this was no every-day writer," 

In 1 741 he went to Leyden in pursuit of medical knowledge ; and 
there three years afterwards (May 16, 1744) became doctor of physic, 
having, according to the custom of the Dutch universities, published 
a thesis or dissertation. ^ , . . 



AKENSIDE. 491 

Akenside was a young man, warm with every notion that by nature 
or accident had been connected with the sound of liberty, and, by an 
eccentricity which such dispositions do not easily avoid, a lover of 
contradiction, and no friend to anything established.^ He adopted 
Shaftesbury's foolish assertion of the eiScacy of ridicule for the discov- 
ery of truth. For this he was attacked by Warburton, and defended 
by Dyson ; ^ Warburton afterwai'ds reprinted his remarks at the end 
of his dedication to the Freethinkers. 

The result of all the arguments which have been produced in a 
long and eager discussion of this idle question may easily be collected. 
If ridicule be applied to any position as the test of truth, it will then 
become a question whether such ridicule be just ; this can only be de- 
cided by the application of truth, as the test of ridicule. Two men 
fearing, one a real, the other a fancied danger, will be for a while 
equally exposed to the inevitable consequences of cowardice, contempt- 
uous censure, and ludicrous representation ; and the true state of both 
cases must be known, before it can be decided whose terror is rational, 
and whose is ridiculous; who is to be pitied, and who to be despised. 
Both are for a while equally exposed to laughter, but both are not 
therefore equally contemptible. 

In the revisal of his poem, though he died before he had finished 
it, he omitted the lines which had given occasion to Warburton's 
objections. '^° 

He published, soon after his return from Leyden (1745), his first 
collection of odes, and was impelled, by his rage of patriotism, to write 
a very acrimonious epistle to Pulteney," whom he stigmatizes, under 
the name of Curio, as the betrayer of his country. 

Being now to live by his profession, he first commenced physician 
at Northampton, where Dr. Stonehouse then practised with such rep- 
utation and success that a stranger was not likely to gain ground upon 
him. Akenside tried the contest a while; and having deafened the 
place with clamors for liberty, removed to Hampstead, where he re- 
sided more than two years, and then fixed himself in London, the 
proper place for a man of accomplishments like his. 

At London he was known as a poet, but was still to make his way 
as a physician ; and would perhaps have been reduced to great exi- 
gencies but that Mr. Dyson, with an ardor of friendship that has not 
many examples, allowed him three hundred pounds a year. Thus 
supported, he advanced gradually in medical reputation, but never 
attained any great extent of practice, or eminence of popularity. A 



492 EuVGLISH LITERATURE. 

physician in a great city seems to be the mere plaything of fortune ; 
his degree of reputation is, for the most part, totally casual : they that 
employ him know not his excellence : they that reject him know not 
his deficience. By any acute observer, who had looked on the trans- 
actions of the medical world for half a century, a very curious book 
might be written on the " Fortune of Physicians." ^- 

Akenside appears not to have be.en wanting to his own success : 
he placed himself in view by all the common methods ; he became a 
Fellow of the Royal Society ; he obtained a degree at Cambridge ; and 
\;as admitted into the College of Physicians ; he wrote little poetry, 
but published from time to time medical essays and observations : he 
became physician to St. Thomas's Hospital ; he read the Gulstonian 
Lectures in Anatomy ; he began to give, for the Crounian Lecture, a 
history of the revival of learning, from which he soon desisted ; and, 
in conversation, he very eagerly forced himself into notice by an ambi- 
tious ostentation of elegance and literature. 

His '-Discourse on the Dysentery"' (1764) was considered as a 
very conspicuous specimen of Latinity ; which entitled him to the 
same height of place among the scholars as he possessed before 
among the wits ; and he might, perhaps, have risen to a greater eleva- 
tion of character, but that his studies were ended with his life, by a 
putrid fever, June 23. 1770, in the forty-ninth 3-ear of his age. 

Akenside is to* be considered as a didactic and lyric poet. His 
great work is '-The Pleasures of Imagination : '"^^ a performance 
which, published as it was at the age of twenty-three, raised expecta- 
tions that were not very amply satisfied. It has undoubtedly a just 
claim to very particular notice, as an example of great felicity of 
genius, and uncommon amplitude of acquisitions, of a young mind 
stored with images, and much exercise in combining and comparing 
them. 

With the philosophical or religious tenets of the author I have 
nothing to do : my business is with his poetry. The subject is well 
chosen, as it includes all images that can strike or please, and thus 
comprises every species of poetical delight. The only difficulty is in 
the choice of examples and illustrations ; and it is not easy, in such 
exuberance of matter, to find the middle point between penury and 
satiety. The parts seem artistically disposed, with sufficient coher- 
ence, so as that they cannot change their places without injury to the 
general design. 

His images are displayed with such luxuriance of expression, that 



AKENSIDE. 493 

they are hidden, Hke Butler's moon, by a "veil of light;" they are 
forms fantastically lost under superfluity of dress. Pars 7;iifinna est 
ipsa puella siii. The words are multiplied till the sense is hardly 
perceived ; attention deserts the mind, and settles in the ear. The 
reader wanders through the gay diffusion, sometimes amazed, and 
sometimes delighted, but, after many turnings in the flowery labyrinth, 
comes out as he went in. He remarked little and laid hold on 
nothing. 

To his versification justice requires that praise should not be 
denied. In the general fabrication of his rhymes he is, perhaps, 
superior to any other writer of blank verse; his flow is smooth, and 
his pauses are musical ; but the concatenation of his verses is com- 
monly too long continued, and the full close does not recur with suffi- 
cient frequency. The sense is carried on through a long intertexture 
of complicated clauses, and, as nothing is distinguished, nothing is 
remembered. 

The exemption which blank verse affords from the necessity of 
closing the sense with the couplet betrays luxuriant and active minds 
into such self-indulgence, that they pile image upon image, ornament 
upon ornament, and are not easily persuaded to close the sense at all. 
Blank verse will, therefore, I fear, be too often found in description 
exuberant, in argument loquacious, and in narration tiresome. 

His diction is certainly poetical as it is not prosaic, and elegant as 
it is not vulgar. He is to be commended as having fewer artifices of 
disgust than most of his brethren of the blank song.''* He rarely 
either recalls old phrases, or twists his meter into harsh inversions. 
The sense of his words, however, is strained, when " he views the 
Ganges from Alpine heights ; " that is from mountains like the Alps. 
And the pedant surely intrudes (but when was blank verse without 
pedantry?) when he tells how " Planets absolve the stated round of 
time." '5 

It is generally known to readers of poetry that he intended to 
revise and augment this work, but died before he had completed his 
design. The reformed work as he left it, and the additions which he 
had made, are very properly retained in the late collection. He seems 
to have somewhat contracted his diffusion; but I know not whether he 
has gained in closeness what he has lost in splendor. In the addi- 
tional book, "The Tale of Solon" is too long. 

One great defect of this poem is very properly censured by Mr. 
Walker, unless it may be said, in his defence, that what he has 



494 EXGLISH LITERATURE. 

omitted was not properly in his plan. His "picture of man is grand 
and beaotiful, but unfinished. The immortality of the soul, which is 
the natural consequence of the appetites and powers she is invested 
with, is scarcely once hinted throughout the poem. This deficiency is 
amply supplied by the masterly pencil of Dr. Young; who, like a 
good philosopher, has in\dncibly proved the immortality of man, both 
from the grandeur of his conceptions, and the meanne^ and misery of 
liis state ; for this reason, a few passages are selected from the 
'Night Thoughts," which, with those of Akenside, seem to form a 
complete ^dew of the powers, situation, and end of man."" 

His other poems are now to be considered ; but a short considera- 
tion will despatch them. It is not easy to guess why he addicted 
himself so diligently to lyric poetr}- , having neither the ease and airi- 
ness of the lighter, nor the vehemence and elevation of the grander 
ode. When he lays his ill-feted hand upon his harp, his former 
powers seem to desert him \ he has no longer his luxuriance of ex- 
pression, nor variety of images. His thoughts are cold, and his words 
inelegant. Yet such was his love of lyrics, thai, having written with 
great vigor and poignancy his ** Epistle to Curio," he transformed it 
afterwards into an ode disgraceful only to its author. 

Of his odes nothing favorable can be said : the sentiments com- 
monl}^ want force, nature, or novelty ; the diction is sometimes harsh 
and uncouth, the 'stanzas ill-constructed and unpleasant, and the 
rhymes dissonant, or unskilfHlly disposed; too distant from each 
other, or arranged with too little regard to established use, and there- 
fore perplexing to the ear, which in a short composition has not time 
to grow familiar with an inno\^tion.'^ 

To examine such compositions singly cannot be required; they 
have doubtless darker and brighter parts ; but when they are once 
found to be generally dull, all further labor may be spared : for to 
what use can the work be criticised that will not be read? 



NOTES TO JOHNSON'S AKENSIDE. 495 



NOTES TO JOHNSON'S AKENSIDE. 

1. This sketch of Akenside is from the "Lives of the Poets." It is one 
of the shortest, but it exhibits very well Johnson's manner of criticism. As is 
frequently the case in the " Lives," the biographical matter is scanty. 

2. Dr. Johnson was a strong Churchman; and his prejudices against the 
Dissenters kept him from doing Akenside full justice. 

3. This was a fund used by the Church of Scotland to educate young 
men of limited means for the ministry. 

4. The reason for the change is a matter of conjecture. It probably 
sprang from a disinclination to assume the responsibilities of the clerical office, 
or perhaps from the drawings of worldly ambition. 

5. Here the prejudices of the Tory and Churchman are apparent. 

6. The title was suggested to Akenside by Addison's papers on the 
"Pleasures of the Imagination," in the Spectator. But the treatment in the 
poem is quite different. 

7. This dissertation was characterized by acute professional research 
and sound reasoning. 

8. Dr. Johnson's prejudices against Presbyterians and Whigs again get 
the better of his judgment. 

9. Jeremiah Dyson — "a name never to be mentioned by any lover of 
genius or noble deeds without affection and reverence" — was .the steadfast 
friend and benefactor of Akenside. The passage in question occurs in the 
third book of the " Pleasures of Imagination." The sense of ridicule was 
implanted " in mortal bosoms," 

" Wherefore, but to aid 
The tardy steps of reason, and at once 
By this prompt impulse urge us to depress 
The giddy whims of folly ? " 

10. This omission would indicate that he recognized the justice of War- 
burton's strictures. 

11. W^illiam Pulteney, Earl of Bath. Once the friend, he afterwards 
became the enemy of Robert W^alpole, and the leader of the opposition in 
Parliament. His weakness in forming a ministry after Walpole's downfall 
in 1 741 gave rise to the charge of betraying his country. Of Akenside's 



49^ ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

epistle, Macaulay said that it indicated "powers of elevated satire, which, if 
diligently cultivated, might have disputed the eminence of Dryden." 

12. This may be taken as an illustration of Johnson's interesting side 
remarks. 

13. This is the first of the series known as the " Poems of the Pleasures." 
The others are "The Pleasures of Memory," by Samuel Rogers; "The 
Pleasures of Hope," by Thomas Campbell; and "The Pleasures of Friend- 
ship," by James McHenry. 

14. Johnson had an unreasonable aversion to blank verse. In the sketch 
of Milton he says: " Poetry may subsist without rh5^me, but English poetry 
will not often please; nor can rhyme ever be safely spared, but where the 
subject is able to support itself. Blank verse . . . has neither the easiness 
of repose, nor the melody of numbers, and therefore tires by long continu- 
ance." 

15. These paragraphs illustrate the points to which Dr. Johnson devotes 
his criticism. It is chiefly external qualities upon which he dwells- — the 
essential element of poetry is untouched. 

16. These observations are a little too severe. 



THE XINETEEXTH CEXTURY. 



REPRESENTATIVE AUTHORS. 

SCOTT. BYRON, WORDSWORTH, TENNYSON. 

OTHER PROMINENT WRITERS. 

Poets. — Coleridge, Southey, Moore, Shelley, Keats. 

Campbell, BRO^vNIXG. 

Hiiitorians. — Grote, Macaulay, Hallam, Carlyle. 

Essayists. — Jeffrey, Hazlitt, Lamb, De Quixcey. 

Xovelists. — Jane Austex, Charlotte Broxte, Marryatt, 

Dickexs, Thackeray, Lyttox, Trollope, George Eliot. 



VII. 

THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 

General Survey. — Upon the whole there has been 
no grander age in the history of the world. It may lack 
the aesthetic culture of the age of Pericles ; the great mar- 
tial spirit of ancient Rome ; the lofty ideals of the age 
of chivalry. But as we compare the conditions of the 
present day with those of any period of the past, who can 
doubt the fact of human progress t The world has grown 
into a liberty, intelligence, happiness, and morality un- 
known at any previous time. To be sure, the true golden 
age has not been reached. That lies, and perhaps far dis- 
tant, in the future. Many evils in society, in the state, 
and in the church, need to be corrected. But the ad- 
vancement during the present century has been marvel- 
lously rapid. Let us consider for a moment some of the 
characteristics of this age. 

If we think of the wonderful improvements in the me- 
chanic arts, we recognize this century as an age of inven- 
tion. Within a few decades are comprised more numerous 
and more important inventions than are found in many 
preceding centuries taken together. Think of the wonders 
accomplished by steam ! It has supplied a new motive 
power, accelerated travel, and built up manufacturing in- 
land towns and cities. Electricity is at present accom- 
plishing scarcely less. It carries our messages and lights 

499 



500 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

our cities. The capacity of the printing-press has been 
vastly increased. While the sewing-machine has taken 
the place of the needle in the house, the reaper and the 
mowing-machine have supplanted the sickle and the scythe 
in the field. The breech-loading and repeating rifle has 
driven out the muzzle-loading flint-lock. Swift armored 
battle-ships have taken the place of slow, high-decked 
wooden vessels. 

These are but a few of the inventions belonging to our 
time. Many a man is now living who has seen the entire 
system of manufacturing, travel, agriculture, and transmis- 
sion of intelligence, completely revolutionized, seeing more 
than if he had lived, in some ages of the world, a thousand 
years. 

The present is an age of scientific inquiry. The 
Baconian spirit prevails. Tradition has lost much of its 
power ; men are not guided by mere authority ; the con- 
clusions of empty speculation are little valued. Careful 
and patient toilers are at work in every department of 
learning. Nature is being questioned as never before. 
All the natural sciences — physics, zoology, botany, geol- 
ogy, chemistry, physiology, astronomy — have been won- 
derfully expanded. We are able to penetrate more 
deeply the mysteries of the world about us. A school- 
boy now knows more of the constitution and laws of the 
physical world than the greatest sages of antiquity. The 
same patient methods of investigation are applied to the 
study of the mind, the origin of man, the history of the 
past, the laws of society. The result is seen in a modifi- 
cation or destruction of many old beliefs ; but at the same 
time it has brought us greater light and a more receptive 
attitude of mind. 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 501 

This is pre-eminently a practical age. It aims at vis- 
ible results. Science and invention have placed vast re- 
sources at our command. The Baconian maxim that 
''knowledge is power" now has abundant exemplification. 
The material wealth of every country is being developed ; 
and daring explorers, supported by private enterprise or 
royal bounty, are sent to examine unknown regions. Rail- 
roads are built ; mines are opened ; towns are established ; 
commerce is encouraged. Every effort is put forth to 
make living less costly and more comfortable. Food and 
clothing were never so abundant. 

Common-sense reigns. Unwilling to be imposed upon 
in any way, men strive to see things as they are. Utility 
is the test applied to everything. Whatever in traditional 
institutions cannot justify itself by this standard, is slowly 
undermined and abolished. No doubt this practical ten- 
dency sometimes goes too far, subjecting aesthetic and 
spiritual interests to material gains. The ideal is in too 
great a degree banished from life. Wealth, luxury, power, 
become in too many cases the object of men's endeavor, 
instead of a pure and lofty character. But while 
attended with this drawback, the practical tendency of 
our age deserves to be considered one of its claims to 
superiority. 

It is an age of educational advancement. Schools of 
every class are being multiplied. Education is brought 
within the reach of common people, and in many countries 
compulsory attendance is enforced. The methods of in- 
struction are more nearly conformed to the nature of the 
child, and the subjects of study are designed to fit the 
pupil for the duties of practical life. In higher education 
the chano;e is no less remarkable. The traditional curric- 



502 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

ulum, consisting largely of Latin and Greek, has been 
greatly expanded. Subjects of great practical importance 
— the modern languages, natural and poHtical science, the 
mother tongue, and history — receive increased attention. 

Education is brought into closer relations with practi- 
cal life. Intelligence was never so generally diffused. 
The periodical press exerts an immense influence. Xot 
only the news from all parts of the world, but also the 
leading political, social, scientific, and religious questions 
of the time, are daily discussed and read in newspapers and 
magazines. The horizon of thought is greatly broadened 
for the masses. 

It is a time of political advancement. The democratic 
principles announced and defended in America and France 
at the close of the last century have become more widely 
diffused. It is now commonly recognized that govern- 
ments exist, not for sovereigns or favored classes, but for 
the people. The right of suffrage has been greatly ex- 
tended. The science of government is better understood, 
and legislative enactments have become more intelligent 
and equitable. The public administration has become 
purer. If bribery, self-aggrandizement, and dishonesty 
still exist, these evils are much less frequent than in 
former ages. Our public men live in the light, and are 
held accountable at the bar of public opinion. 

Wars are becoming less frequent and less barbaric. 
Minor international differences are usually settled by diplo- 
macy and arbitration. The treatment of the unfortunate 
and the criminal classes has become more humane. The 
insane are no longer chained in loathsome cells, the un- 
fortunate debtor is not thrown into jail, a petty criminal is 
not hanged. As compared with any other period in the 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 503 

history of the English-speaking race, the present is an age 
of poUtical freedom, justice, and humanity. 

The age is one of social advancement. It is true that 
much remains yet to be accomplished. The agitation of 
social questions makes us observant of existing evils. 
However much may be lacking in comparison with an 
ideal condition, there is great improvement in comparison 
with the past. The facilities of modern manufacture and 
commerce have greatly multiplied and cheapened the ne- 
cessities and comforts of life. Wages have increased. 
The poor, as well as the rich, live better than ever before. 

With increased intelligence, the popular taste has be- 
come more refined. Amusements have become less coarse 
and brutal. Public libraries and museums give the labor- 
ing classes the means of intellectual culture and refined 
enjoyment. Machinery has decreased the amount of 
drudgery. The hours of work have been shortened. 
Children are protected from the cruelty of parents and 
the inhumanity of employers. A great levelling process 
is lessening the inequalities of social condition. Serfs 
and slaves are things of the past. 

The religious advancement of the time is specially 
noteworthy. Christian doctrines have felt the touch of a 
broadened culture and a scientific spirit. Superstition 
has become a thing of the past. The emphasis of reli- 
gious teaching is now centred upon fundamental truths. 
We understand more clearly the nature and the works of 
God. A new life, begotten and sustained by Christianity, 
receives increased emphasis. Piety in the daily life is 
considered of more importance than the formal acceptance 
of elaborate creeds. Christ has become more and more 
the conscious ideal of the world. The ascetic spirit has 



504 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

given place to an active spirit that bravely meets the 
duties of every-day life. 

Religion never had greater power. Its principles per- 
vade every department of life. Christian churches are 
multiplied ; religious literature is widely extended ; the 
Bible is more carefully studied. The asperities of reli- 
gious sects are softening, and the general tendency is to 
Christian unity. The Evangelical Alliance and the 
Young Men's Christian Association are the practical 
manifestation of the general desire for closer union and 
co-operation among Christian people. 

In accordance with the practical tendencies of the age, 
religion is more benevolent in its activities. The father- 
hood of God and the brotherhood of man are appreciated 
as never before. The church is active in missionary work 
at home and abroad. It is foremost in every work that 
seeks to relieve the unfortunate and reclaim the lost. It 
seeks to bring a pure and benevolent spirit to the settle- 
ment of the great social and political problems of the 
day. 

Literature, in sympathy with the intellectual movements 
of the age, has shown a many-sided activity. It is at 
once creative and diffusive. Both prose and poetry have 
been cultivated to an extraordinary degree. Old forms of 
literature have been expanded, and new forms devised to 
contain the rich intellectual fruitage of the present cen- 
tury. In style there has been a return to nature ; at the 
same time there has been an artistic finish unknown in 
previous eras. 

With the establishment of many periodicals, essay 
writing has attained a new importance and excellence. In 
the days of Addison and Johnson, the essay was devoted 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 505 

chiefly to brief discussions of light social and moral topics. 
It is different now. In the form of reviews and magazine 
articles, the essay deals with every subject of interest or 
importance. The scholar, the scientist, the philosopher, 
the historian, — each uses the periodical press to set forth 
the results of his studies and investigations. The cream 
of human thought and activity is contained in our leading 
magazines and reviews. Without an acquaintance with 
their contents, it is difficult to keep abreast with the times. 

A notable advance is discernible in the writing of his- 
tory. Greater prominence is given to the social condition 
of the people. The sources of information have been 
greatly enlarged, and historians are expected to base their 
statements on trustworthy data. Besides, a philosophy of 
history has been recognized. Greater attention . is given 
to the moving causes of events, and to the general ten- 
dencies in national life. With this greater trustworthiness 
and more philosophic treatment, history has lost nothing 
of its excellence of style. If it has given up the uniform 
stateliness of Robertson and Gibbon, it has become more 
graphic, more varied, and more interesting. 

No other department of literature has shown a richer 
development during the present century than fiction. It 
occupies the place filled by the drama during the Eliza- 
bethan period. The plot is skilfully conducted ; the char- 
acters represent every class of society ; the thoughts are 
often the deepest of which our nature is capable. Fiction 
is no longer simply a means of amusement. Without lay- 
ing aside its artistic character, it has become in great 
measure didactic. In the form of historical romance, it 
seeks to reproduce in a vivid manner the thoughts, feel- 
ings, and customs of other ages. The novel of contem- 



506 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

porary life often holds up to view the foibles and vices 
of modern society. In many cases fiction is made the 
means of popularizing various social, religious, and politi- 
cal views. 

The many changes in politics, science, and religion 
have produced a notable change in poetry. The poetic 
imagery inherited from Greece and Rome has been swept 
away. Modern science has been too strong for the my- 
thology of the ancients. 

Yet the general effect upon poetry of the modern 
scientific spirit has been salutary. While it has swept 
away what was unessential and temporary, it has led the 
way to deeper verities. Poetry now penetrates more 
deeply into the secrets of human nature and of the physi- 
cal universe. The revolutionary social and political ideas, 
with which the century opened, have likewise proved 
favorable to poetry. For a time, as in Shelley and Byron, 
it resulted in productions outrageously hostile to existing 
institutions. But after a time the perturbed current of 
poetry began to run clear, and it was seen to have gained 
in volume and power. Throwing aside its anarchical 
tendencies, it became the advocate of justice, freedom, 
and truth. 

With clearer views of divine truth, poetry has gained 
in geniality, and in power to reach the profound spiritual 
part of man. The hardness of Puritanic asceticism has 
been laid aside. In Christian lyrics of unsurpassed sweet- 
ness, poetry breathes the spirit of divine and human love ; 
and in elegies, it draws strength and comfort from the 
deepest resources of philosophy and inspiration. 

While in large measure realistic, poetry has not cast 
aside its ideal character. Modern progress in culture has 



THE NIXETEENTH CENTURY. 507 

placed it on a high vantage ground — far in advance of 
all the preceding ages ; and from this new position, its 
penetrating vision pierces farther into the realms of unex- 
plored and undiscovered truth. With its present expan- 
sion in thought and feeling, poetry has naturally assumed 
new forms. While in dramatic poetry there is a humili- 
ating decay in comparison with the Elizabethan era, yet in 
lyric, narrative, and didactic poetry we find almost unri- 
valled excellence. With naturalness of form and expres- 
sion, there is a careful and conscientious workmanship 
not found in previous periods. 



508 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



SIR WALTER SCOTT, 

The greatest literary figure during the first quarter of the 
present centur\- is undoubtedly Sir Walter Scott. He occupied 
scarcely less relative prominence for a time than did Samuel 
Johnson a few decades earlier. It is not uncommon to associ- 
ate his name with the period in which he was pre-eminent. He 
distinguished himself in both poetiy and prose. He created 
a species of romantic poetry that was received with gTcat 
applause until it was eclipsed by the intenser productions of 
B}Ton. "Why did you quit poetry?'" a friend once inquired 
of Scott. •• Because Byron beat me."" was the remarkabty frank 
reply. He then turned to fiction ; and in his splendid series of 
historical romances he stands pre-eminent not only among the 
wTiters of Englan.d. but of the world. 

Sir Walter Scott descended from a line distinguished for 
sports and arms rather than letters. One of his remote ances- 
tors was once given the choice of being hanged, or marrying a 
woman who had won the prize for ugliness in four counties. 
After three days" deliberation he decided in favor of " meikle- 
mouthed -Meg."" who. be it said, made him an excellent wife. 
It was from her that our author possibly inherited his large 
mouth. His father was a dignified man. orderly in his habits, 
and fond of ceremony. It is said that he *• absolutely loved a 
funeral ; "' and from far and near he was sent for to superintend 
mortuary ceremonies. As a lawyer he frequently lost clients 
by insisting that they should be just — a sturdy uprightness 
that was transmitted to his illustrious son. 

Sir Walter's mother was a woman of superior native ability 
and of excellent education. She had a good memory, and a 
talent for narration. " If I have been able to do anything in 



S/J? WALTER SCOTT. 509 

the way of painting past times," he once wrote, "it is very 
much from the studies with which she presented me." He 
loved his mother tenderly ; and the evening after his burial, 
a number of small objects that had once belonged to her were 
found arranged in careful order in his desk, where his eye 
might rest upon them every morning before he began his task. 
This is an instance of fihal piety as touching as it is beautiful. 

Walter Scott, the ninth of twelve children, was born in 
Edinburgh, Aug. 15, 1771. On account of sickness he was 
sent into the country, where his childhood was spent in the 
midst of attractive scenery. Left lying out of doors one day, a 
thunder-storm arose ; and when his aunt ran to bring him in, 
she found him delighted with the raging elements, and shout- 
ing, "Bonny, bonny! " at every flash of lightning. One of the 
old servants spoke of him as " a sweet-tempered bairn, a darling 
with all about the house." But at the same time he was active, 
fearless, and passionate. The Laird of Raeburn, a relative, once 
wrung the neck of a pet starling. " I flew at his throat like a 
wild cat," said Sir Walter, as he recalled the circumstance 
fifty years afterwards, " and was torn from him with no little 
difficulty." 

At school he established a reputation for irregular ability. 
He possessed great energy, vitality, and pride, and was natu- 
rally a leader among his fellow-pupils. , He had the gift of 
story-telling in a remarkable degree. He found difficulty in 
confining himself to the prescribed studies, and persistently 
declined to learn Greek. In Latin he made fair attainments. 
He delighted in the past, reverenced existing institutions, sym- 
pathized with royalty, and as a boy, as in after life, he was a 
Tory. 

As a student of law at the University of Edinburgh, Scott 
was noted for his gigantic memory and enormous capacity for 
work. His literary tastes ran in the direction of mediaeval life, 
and he devoured legend and romance and border song with 
great avidity. He learned Italian to read Ariosto, and Spanish 
to read Cervantes, whose novels, he said, " first inspired him 



5IO EXGLISH LITERATURE. 

with the desire to excel in fiction." But his memon- retained 
only what suited his genius. He used to illustrate this charac- 
teristic by the story of an old borderer who once said to a 
Scotch divine: "' Xo. sir. I have no command of my memory. 
It only retains what hits my fancy: and probably, sir. if you 
were to preach to me for two hours. I Avould not be able, when 
you finished, to remember a word you had been saying." 

As a lawyer Scott was not notably successful. He was 
fond of making excursions over the country lo visit localities 
celebrated for natural beauty or historic events. In view of 
this habit, his father reproached him as being better fitted for a 
pedler than for a lawyer. He was rather fond, it must be said, 
of living, — 

" One crowded hour of slorious life." 



'• But drunk or sober." such is the testimony of one of 
his companions at this time, "he was aye the gentleman." 
Scott practised at the bar fourteen years : but his earnings 
never amounted to much more than two hundred pounds a 
year. In 1799 .he Avas made sherift" of Selkirkshire on a 
salar}' of three hundred pounds : and a few years later he 
became Clerk of the Session. — an ofi:icer in the Court of 
Edinburgh. — a position that increased his income to sixteen 
hundred pounds. He was not eloquent as a pleader ; his 
tastes were averse to legal drudgery : and his proclivities for 
poetry and for rambling over the countn,- did not enhance his 
reputation as a lawyer. But whether practising at the bar or 
wandering over the countrv. " he was makin" himself a" the 
time" — storing his mind with the facts, legends, and charac- 
ters which he was afterwards to embody in his immortal works. 

The life of Scott was not without its romance, and. — but 
for the effect upon his character and works, we might say. — 
alas, its sorrow. He one day offered his umbrella to a beauti- 
ful vouns; ladv who was coming: out of the Grevfriars church 
during a shower. It was graciously accepted. The incident 
led to an acquaintance, and. at least on the part of Scott, to 



Sm WALTER SCOTT. 51I 

a deep attachment. His large romantic nature was filled with 
visions of happiness. Then came disappointment. For some 
reason the fair Margaret rejected his attentions, and married a 
rival. After the first resentment was past, this attachment 
remained throughout his life a source of tender recollections. 
Years afterwards he went to visit Margaret's mother, and noted 
in his diary : " I fairly softened myself, like an old fool, with 
recalling old stories till I was fit for nothing but shedding tears 
and repeating verses for the whole night.'' Within a twelve- 
month of his disappointment, urged on it may be by his pride, 
he married Miss Carpenter, a lady of French birth and parent- 
age. Though it was ''a bird of paradise mating with an eagle," 
she made a good wife, and the union was upon the whole a 
happy one. 

Though Scott's greatest literary work was to be in prose, he 
began with poetry. His first undertaking was a translation from 
the German of Burger's spectral ballad, " Lenore." Though his 
rendering is spirited, he was far too healthy-minded to be per- 
fectly at home in treating spectral themes. He soon turned to 
more congenial subjects. From his college days he had been 
making a collection of old Scottish ballads. In 1802 he pub- 
lished in two volumes " The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," 
which was an immediate success. 

The native bent of his mind, and his studies for many years, 
peculiarly fitted him to restore and illustrate the simplicity 
and violence of the old border life. The transition to original 
poems, in which the legends and history of the same region 
were embodied, was easily made. " The Lay of the Last Min- 
strel " was published in 1805, and at once became widely popu- 
lar. More than two thousand copies were sold the first year ; 
and by 1830 the sales reached forty-four thousand copies, 
bringing the author nearly a thousand pounds. 

Three years later " Marmion," his greatest poem, appeared; 
and this was followed in 1810 by "The Lady of the Lake." 
They were read with enthusiasm. They were new in subject 
and treatment. Without any pretension to clasbical regularity 



5 1 2 EXGLISH LITER A TCRE. 

and finish, they were rapid, energetic, and romantic — the style 
exactly suited to the subject. "I am sensible,"" the author 
said, '• that if there be anything good about my poetry or prose 
either, it is a hurried frankness of composition, Avhich pleases 
soldiers, sailors, and young people of bold and active disposi- 
tions."" They are so simple in structure and thought as to be 
easily comprehended : they abound in wild scenes and daring 
deeds ; they are suffused with a patriotic, martial spirit, and the 
delirious enjoyment of wild out-door life. 

Nearly all of Scott's poetry was written in a beautiful little 
country house at Ashestiel. The locality is vividly depicted in 
the first canto of •* Marmion "' : — 

" November's sky is chill and drear, 
November's leaf is red and sear ; 
Late, gazing down the steepy linn, 
That hems our little garden in, 
Low in its dark and narrow glen, 
You scarce the rivulet might ken, 
So thick the tangled greenwood grew. 
So feeble trilled the streamlet through; 
Now, murmuring hoarse, and frequent seen. 
Through bush and briar no longer green. 
An angry brook, it sweeps the glade, 
Brawls over rock and wild cascade, 
And, foaming brown with double speed, 
Hurries its waters to the Tweed." 

He devoted the first part of the day to his literary work. 
"Arrayed in his shooting-jacket, or whatever dress he meant to 
use till dinner-time, he was seated at his desk by six o'clock, all 
his papers arranged before him in the most accurate order, and 
his books of reference marshalled around him on the floor, 
while at least one favorite dog lay watching his eye, just be- 
yond the line of circumvallation. Thus, by the time the family 
assembled for breakfast, between nine and ten, he had done 
enough, in his own language, 'to break the neck of the day's 
work." " 

During the seven vears of his residence at Ashestiel, his 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 513 

literary labors included, besides his poetry, a " Life of Dryden," 
'•The Secret History of James I.,"' and many other works of 
less importance. 

In 18 1 2 Scott moved to Abbotsford, where he spent the 
rest of his life. He was a man of great personal and family 
pride. It was his ambition to live in great magnilicence, and 
to dispense hospitality on a large scale. He bought a large 
area of land at an aggregate expense of twenty-nine thousand 
pounds, and erected a baronial castle. Here he realized for a 
time his ideal of life. He was visited by distinguished men 
and hero-worshippers from all parts of the world. Indeed, his 
fame became oppressive. His correspondence was enormous, 
and as many as sixteen parties of sight-seers visited Abbots- 
ford in a single day. 

For his friends Scott was the prince of hosts. Devoting 
only the earlier part of the day to work, he placed his afternoons 
wholly at the service of his guests. Hunting was his favorite 
sport, and he led many a brilliant party over the hills and 
through the valleys to the echoing music of his hounds. His 
large, benevolent nature drew men to him. To all classes he 
was thoroughly kind. " Sir Walter speaks to every man as if 
they were blood relations," was a common description of his 
demeanor. Even the dumb animals recognized in him a 
friend. 

Apart from his social enjoyments, Scott found most delight 
in planting trees. He greatly beautified his estate, and im- 
parted a taste for arboriculture to the landholders about him. 
"Planting and pruning trees," he said, " I could work at from 
morning to night. There is a sort of self-congratulation, a little 
self-flattery, in the idea that while you are pleasing and amusing 
yourself, you are seriously contributing to the future welfare of 
the country, and that your acorn may send its future ribs of 
oak to future victories like Trafalgar." 

The great mistake in Scott's life lay in his business ven- 
tures. Through them came ultimately embarrassment and dis- 
aster. In the hope of increasing his income, he established 



514 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

the publishing house of John Ballantyne & Co., in Edinburgh. 
John Ballantyne was a frivolous, dissipated man, wholly unfit 
for the management of the enterprise. Scott, though possess- 
ing sufficient discernment, was easily led away by his feelings. 
As a consequence, the warehouses of the new firm were soon 
filled with a great quantity of unsalable stock. Only the ex- 
tensive sale of his novels saved the company from early bank- 
ruptcy. But ultimately the crash came, and in 1825 Scott 
found himself personally responsible for the enormous debt of 
one hundred and thirty thousand pounds. 

For years he had been the literary sovereign of Great 
Britain. He had lived in the midst of great splendor at Abbots- 
ford. To find his means swept away in a single moment was a 
terrific blow, sufficient to crush an ordinary man. But at no 
time in his career did Scott exhibit so fully his heroic charac- 
ter. Instead of crushing him, misfortune only called forth his 
strength. With indomitable will and sturdy integrity, he set to 
work to meet his immense obligations. There is nothing more 
heroic in the course of English literature. Work after work 
came from his pen in rapid succession. He well-nigh accom- 
plished his purpose ; but at last, as we shall see, his mind and 
body gave way under the tremendous strain, and he fell a 
martyr to high-souled integrity. 

In 18 14, when the affairs of Ballantyne & Co. were in a 
perplexing condition, Scott took up a work in prose, which he 
had begun in 1805, and pushed it rapidly to completion. This 
was " Waverley," the first of that wonderful series which has 
placed his name at the head of historical novelists. Though 
published anonymously, as were all its successors, it met with 
astonishing success. It decided his future literary career. His 
poetic vein had been exhausted, and Byron's verse was attract- 
ing public attention. Henceforth he devoted himself to his- 
torical fiction, for which his native powers and previous training 
were precisely adapted. 

For the remainder of his life he composed, in addition to 
other literary labors, on an average two romances a year, il- 



S/A' WALTER SCOTT. 515 

lustrating every period in Scottish, English, and Continental 
history from the time of the Crusades to the middle of the eigh- 
teenth century. The series is, upon the whole, remarkably 
even in excellence ; but among the most interesting may be 
mentioned " Old Mortality," which describes the sufferings of 
the Covenanters ; " The Heart of Midlothian,'' to which many 
critics assign the highest rank; " Ivanhoe " which is very popu- 
lar ; and " Quentin Durward," which holds a distinguished 
place. 

In the composition of these works, Scott wrote with ex- 
traordinary rapidity. " Guy Mannering " is said to have been 
written in six weeks. Carlyle finds fault with what he calls the 
" extempore method." But in reality it was not extempore. It 
had been Scott's delight from childhood to store his capacious 
memory with the antiquarian and historical information which 
he embodied in his novels. Instead of laborious special inves- 
tigations, he had but to draw on this great reservoir of learn- 
ing. He did not wait for moments of inspiration ; but morning 
after morning, he returned to his task with the same zest, and 
turned out the same amount of work. 

Even acute physical suffering did not overcome his creative 
power. He dictated "The Bride of Lammermoor," "The 
Legend of Montrose," and "Ivanhoe" to amanuenses. His 
suffering sometimes forced from him cries of agony. When his 
amanuensis once begged him to stop dictating, he only an- 
swered, " Nay, Willie, only see that the doors are fast ; I would 
fain keep all the cry as well as all the wool to ourselves." A 
few other writers have equalled or even surpassed Scott in the 
number of novels ; but, if we consider the quality of work and 
the many centuries covered by his romances, we must regard 
him as still without a successful rival. 

The Waverley novels are characterized by largeness of 
thought and style. They turn on public rather than private in- 
terests. In place of narrow social circles, we are introduced 
into the midst of great public movements. Crusaders, Papists, 
Puritans, Cavaliers, Roundheads, Jacobites, Jews, freebooters, 



5l6 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

preachers, schoolmasters, gypsies, beggars, move before us with 
the reaUty of life. The past is made to live again. The style 
corresponds to the largeness of the subjects. Scott could not 
have achieved distinction in domestic novels, with their petty 
interests and trifling distinctions. 

He was an admirer of Miss Austen, in reference to whose 
manner he said : " The big bow-wow strain I can do myself, 
like any now going ; but the exquisite touch which renders ordi- 
nary commonplace things and characters interesting, from the 
truth of the description and the sentiment, is denied me." 
" Scott needed," observes Hutton, " a certain largeness of type, 
a strongly marked class-life, and where it was possible, a free 
out-of-doors life, for his delineations. No one could paint beg- 
gars and gypsies, and wandering fiddlers, and mercenary sol- 
diers, and peasants, and farmers, and lawyers, and magistrates, 
and preachers, and courtiers, and statesmen, and best of all 
perhaps queens and kings, M'ith anything like his ability." 

In 1825, after the failure of Ballantyne & Co., Scott reso- 
lutely set to work to pay his creditors. His only resource was 
his pen. Although his cherished hopes were all blasted, he toiled 
on indomitably till nature gave way. Two days after the news 
of the crash reached him, he was working on "Woodstock." 
In three years he earned and paid over to his creditors no less 
than forty thousand pounds. If his health had continued, he 
would have discharged the enormous debt. But unfavorable 
symptoms began to manifest themselves in 1829, and the fol- 
lowing year he had a stroke of paralysis. Though he recovered 
from it, his faculties never regained their former clearness and 
strength. Nevertheless, in spite of the urgent advice of physi- 
cians and friends, he continued to toil on. " Count Robert of 
Paris" and "Castle Dangerous" appeared in 1831. But they 
showed a decline in mental vigor — his magic wand was 
broken. An entry in his diary at this time is truly pathetic : 
" The blow is a stunning one, I suppose, for I scarcely feel it. 
It is singular, but it comes with as little surprise as if I had 
a remedy ready ; yet God knows I am at sea in the dark, and 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 517 

the vessel leaky, I think, into the bargain." It is the pathos of 
a strong man's awaking to a consciousness that his strength is 
gone. 

A sea voyage was recommended; and in October, 1831, he 
sailed in a vessel, put at his disposal by the government, for 
Malta. He visited various points on the JNIediterranean, but 
without material benefit. With the failing of his strength, he 
longed for Abbotsford. As he caught sight of the towers once 
more, he sprang up with a cry of delight. A few days before 
his death he called his son-in-law Lockhart to his bedside. 
" Lockhart," he said, " I may have but a minute to speak to 
you. My dear, be a good man, — be virtuous, — be religious, 
— be a good man. Nothing else will give you any comfort 
when you come to lie here." These were almost his last words. 
Four days afterwards, during which time he showed scarcely 
any signs of consciousness, he quietly passed away, Sept. 
21, 1832 — one of the grandest, but, also — if we think of his 
disappointed hopes — one of the saddest characters in English 
literature. 



5l8 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

THE TALISM.-VX. 

^i-L^PTER FIRST. 

They, xoo, rerlrtd 
To tte wildenaess, r-^: '-^^^-af -'.-ith arms. 

Puermdi^ Regained. 

The bummg sun of S3Tia had noi yet anained its highest point in 
the horizon, when a knight of the Red-cross,^ who had left his distant 
northern home, and joined the host of the Crusaders in Palestine, was 
pacmg slowh' along the sandy deserts which lie in the vicinity of the 
Dead Sea, or, as it is called, the Lake Asphaltites," where the waves 
of the Jordan poor themselves into an inland sea, from which there is 
no discharge of T?ra.ters. 

The warlike pilgrim had toiled among cliffs and precipices during 
the earlier part of the morning ; more lately, issuing from those rockv 
and dangerous defiles, he had entered upon that great plain, where \:.t 
accursed cities ^ provoked, in ancient days, the direct and dreadful ven- 
geance of the Omnipotent. 

The toil, the thirst, the dangers of the way, were forgotien, as the 
t-raveller recalled tlae fearful catastrophe, which had converted into an 
arid and dismal wilderness the feir and fertile valley of Siddim,^ once 
well watered, even as the Garden of the Lord, now a parched and 
blighted waste, condemned to eternal sterility. 

Crossing himself, as he viewed the dark mass of rolling waters, in 
color as in quality unhke those of every other lake, the traveller shud- 
dered as he remembered, that beneath these sluggish waves lay the 
once proud cities of the plain, whose grave was dug by the thunder of 
the heavens, or the eruption of subterraneous fire, and whose remains 
were hid, even by that sea which holds no living i&sh in its bosom, 
bears no skiff on its surfece, and, as if its own dreadftil bed were the 
onl}- fit receptacle for its sullen waters, sends not, like other lakes, a 
tribute to the ocean. The whole land aromid, as in the days of IMoses, 
was '" brimstone and salt; it is not sown, nor beareth, nor any grass 
gioweth thereon ; ^ ^ the land as weE as the lake might be termed dead, 
as producing nothing having resemblance to v^etation, and even the 
ver>' air \\-as entirely devoid of its ordinary winged inhabitants, deterred 
probably by the odor of bitumen and sulphur, which the burning sun 



THE TALISMAN. 519 

exhaled from the waters of the lake, in steaming clouds, frequently 
assuming the appearance of waterspouts.^ Masses of the slimy and 
sulphurous substance called naphtha,^ which floated idly on the slug- 
gish and sullen waves, supplied those rolling clouds with new vapors, 
and afforded awful testimony to the truth of the Mosaic history. 

Upon this scene of desolation the sun shone with almost intolerable 
splendor, and all living nature seemed to have hidden itself from the 
rays, excepting the solitary figure which moved through the flitting 
sand at a foot's pace, and appeared the sole breathing thing on the wide 
surface of the plain. The dress of the rider and the accoutrements 
of his horse were peculiarly unfit for the traveller in such a country. 
A coat of linked mail, with long sleeves, plated gauntlets, and a steel 
breastplate, had not been esteemed a sufficient weight of armor; there 
was also his triangular shield suspended round his neck, and his barred 
helmet ^ of steel, over which he had a hood and collar of mail, which 
was drawn around the warrior's shoulders and throat, and filled up the 
vacancy between the hauberk ^ and the head-piece. '° His lower limbs 
were sheathed, like his body, in flexible mail, securing the legs and 
thighs, while the feet rested in plated shoes, which corresponded with 
the gauntlets. A long, broad, straight-shaped, double-edged falchion, 
with a handle formed like a cross, corresponded with a stout pon- 
iard, on the other side. The knight also bore, secured to his sad- 
dle, with one end resting on his stirrup, the long steel-headed lance, 
his own proper weapon, which, as he rode, projected backward, and 
displayed its little pennoncelle,'' to dally with the faint breeze, or drop 
in the dead calm. To this cumbrous equipment must be added a sur- 
coat '^ of embroidered cloth, much frayed and worn, which was thus 
far useful, "that it excluded the burning rays of the sun from the armor, 
which they would otherwise have rendered intolerable to the wearer. 
The surcoat bore, in several places, the arms ^^ of the owner, although 
much defaced. These seemed to be a couchant leopard, with the motto, 
'' I sleep — wake me not.'" An outline of the same device might be 
traced on his shield, though many a blow- had almost effaced the paint- 
ing. The flat top of his cumbrous cylindrical helmet was unadorned 
with any crest.'"* In retaining their own unwieldy defensive armor, 
the northern Crusaders seemed to set at defiance the nature of the 
climate and country to which they had come to war. 

The accoutrements of the horse were scarcely less massive and un- 
wieldy than those of the rider. The animal had a heavy saddle plated 
with steel, uniting in front with a species of breastplate, and behind 



520 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

with defensive armor made to cover the loins. Then there was a 
steel axe, or hammer, called a mace-of-arms, and which hung to the 
saddlebow ; the reins were secured by chain-work, and the front-stall 
of the bridle was a steel plate, with apertures for the eyes and nostrils, 
having in the midst a short sharp pike, projecting from the forehead 
of tlie horse like the horn of the fabulous unicorn. 

But habit had made the endurance of this load of panoply '^ a sec- 
ond nature, both to tlie knight and his gallant charger. Numbers, in- 
deed, of the w^estern warriors who hurried to Palestine, died ere thev 
became inured to the burning climate : but there were others to whom 
that climate became innocent and even friendly, and among this for- 
tunate number was the solitary horseman who now traversed the 
border of the Dead Sea, 

Nature, which cast his limbs in a mould of uncommon strength, 
fitted to wear his linked hauberk with as much ease as if the meshes 
had been formed of cobwebs, had endowed him with a constitution as 
strong as his limbs, and which bade defiance to almost all changes of 
climate, as w^ell as to fatigue and privations of every kind. His dispo- 
sition seemed, in some degree, to partake of the qualities of his bodily 
fi-ame ; and as tlie one possessed great strength and endurance, united 
with the power of violent exertion, the other, under a calm and un- 
disturbed semblance, had much of the fiery and enthusiastic love of 
glorv wiiich constitiited the principasl attribute of the renowned Nor- 
man line, and had rendered them sovereigns in every corner of Europe, 
where they had drawm their adventurous swords. 

It was not, however, to all the race that fortune proposed such 
tempting rewards : and those obtained by the solitar\- knight during 
two years' campaign in Palestine had been only temporal fame, and, 
as he w^as taught to believe, spiritual prixileges. Meantime, his slen- 
der stock of money had melted awa}-, the rather that he did not pursue 
any of the ordinary modes b}' which the followers of the Crusade con- 
descended to recruit their diminished resources, at the expense of the 
people of Palestine : he exacted no gifts from the wretched natives for 
sparing their possessions when engaged in w^arfare with the Saracens. 
and he had not availed himself of an}- opportunity of enriching himself 
by the ransom of prisoners of consequence. The small train which 
had followed him from his native countn,- had been gradually dimin- 
ished, as the means of maintaining them disappeared, and liis only re- 
maining squire w-as at present on a sick-bed, and unable to attend his 
master, who travelled, as we have seen, singly and alone. This was 



THE TALISMAN. 52 1 

of little consequence to the Crusader, who was accustomed to consider 
his good sword as his safest escort, and devout thoughts as his best 
companion. 

Nature had, however, her demands for refreshment and repose, 
even on the iron frame and patient disposition of the Knight of the 
Sleeping Leopard ; and at noon, when the Dead Sea lay at some dis- 
tance on his riglit, he joyfully hailed the sight of two or three palm- 
trees, which arose beside the well which was assigned for his mid-day 
station. His good horse, too, which had plodded forward with the 
steady endurance of his master, now lifted his head, expanded his 
nostrils, and quickened his pace, as if he snuffed afar oft' the living 
waters, which marked the place of repose and refreshment. But la- 
bor and danger were doomed to intervene ere the horse or horseman 
reached the desired spot. 

As the Knight of the Couchant Leopard continued to fix his eyes 
attentively on the yet distant cluster of palm-trees, it seemed to him as 
if some object was moving among them. The distant form separated 
itself from the trees, which partly hid its motions, and advanced to- 
ward the knight with a speed which soon showed a mounted horse- 
man, whom his turban, long spear, and green caftan ^^ floating in the 
wind, on his nearer approach, showed to be a Saracen cavalier. '^ "In 
the desert," saith an Eastern proverb, " no man meets a friend.'' The 
Crusader was totally indifferent whether the infidel, who now ap- 
proached on his gallant barb, as if borne on the wings of an eagle, 
came as friend or foe — perhaps, as a vowed champion of the Cross, he 
might rather have preferred the latter. He disengaged his lance from 
his saddle, seized it with the right hand, placed it in rest with its 
point half elevated, gathered up the reins in the left, waked his horse's 
mettle with the spur, and prepared to encounter the stranger with the 
calm self-confidence belonging to the victor in many contests. 

The Saracen came on at the speedy gallop of an Arab horseman, 
managing his steed more by his limbs, and the inflection of his body, 
than by any use of the reins, which hung loose in his left hand ; so that 
he was enabled to wield the light round buckler of the skin of the 
rhinoceros, ornamented with silver loops, which he wore on his arm, 
swinging it as if he meant to oppose its slender circle to the formidable 
thrust of the western lance. His own long spear was not couched or 
levelled like that of his antagonist, but grasped by the middle with his 
right hand, and brandished at arm's length above his head. As the 
cavalier approached his enemy at full career, he seemed to expect that 



522 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

the Knight of the Leopard should put his horse to the gallop to en- 
counter him. But the Christian knight, well acquainted with the cus- 
toms of Eastern warriors, did not mean to exhaust his good horse by 
any unnecessary exertion ; and, on the contrary, made a dead halt, 
confident that if the enemy advanced to the actual shock, his own 
weight, and that of his powerful charger, would give him sufficient ad- 
vantage, without the additional momentum of rapid motion. Equally 
sensible and apprehensive of such a probable result, the Saracen cava- 
lier, when he had approached toward the Christian within twice the 
length of his lance, wheeled his steed to the left with inimitable dex- 
terity, and rode twice round his antagonist, who, turning without quit- 
ting his ground, and presenting his front constantly to his enemy, 
frustrated his attempts to attack him on an unguarded point : so that 
the Saracen, wheeling his horse, was fain to retreat to the distance of 
a hundred yards. A second time, like a hawk attacking a heron, the 
Heathen renewed the charge, and a second time was fain to retreat 
without coming to a close struggle. A third time he approached in 
the same manner, when the Christian knight, desirous to terminate 
this elusory warfare, in which he might at length have been worn out 
by the activity of his foeman, suddenly seized the mace which hung at 
his saddlebow, and. with a strong hand and unerring aim, hurled it 
against the head of the Emir,^^ for such and not less his enemy ap- 
peared. The Saracen was just aware of the formidable missile in time 
to interpose his light buckler betwixt the mace and his head : but the 
violence of the blow forced the buckler down on his turban, and 
though that defence also contributed to deaden its violence, the Sara- 
cen was beaten from his horse. Ere the Christian could avail himself 
of this mishap, his nimble foeman sprung from the ground, and calling 
on his horse, which instantly returned to his side, he leaped into his 
seat without touching the stirrup, and regained all the advantage of 
which the Knight of the Leopard hoped to deprive him. But the 
latter had in the meanwhile recovered his mace, and the Eastern 
cavalier, who remembered the strength and dexteritv with which his 
antagonist had aimed it, seemed to keep cautiously out of reach of that 
weapon, of which he had so lately felt the force, while he showed his 
purpose of waging a distant warfare with missile weapons of his own. 
Planting his long spear in the sand at a distance from the scene of 
combat, he strung, with great address, a short bow which he carried 
at his back, and putting his horse to the gallop, once more described 
two or three circles of a wider extent than formerlv. in the course of 



THE TALISMAN. 523 

which he discharged six arrows at the Christian with such unerring 
skill, that the goodness of his harness alone saved him from being 
wounded in as many places. The seventh shaft apparently found a 
less perfect part of the armor, and the Christian dropped heavily from 
his horse. But what was the surprise of the Saracen, when, dismount- 
ing to examine the condition of his prostrate enemy, he found himself 
suddenly within the grasp of the European, who had had recourse to 
this artifice to bring his enemy within his reach ! Even in this deadly 
grapple, the Saracen was saved by his agility and presence of mind. 
He unloosed the sword-belt, in which the Knight of the Leopard had 
fixed his hold, and thus eluding his fatal grasp, mounted his horse, 
which seemed to watch his motions with the intelligence of a human 
being, and again rode off. But in the last encounter the Saracen had 
lost his sword and his quiver of arrows, both of which were attached 
to the girdle which he was obliged to abandon. He had also lost his 
turban in the struggle. These disadvantages seemed to incline the 
Moslem to a truce. He approached the Christian with his right hand 
extended, but no longer in a menacing attitude. 

"There is truce betwixt our nations,"' he said, in the Lingua 
Franca 19 commonly used for the purpose of communication with the 
Crusaders ; " wherefore should there be war betwixt thee and me ? — 
Let there be peace betwixt us." 

" I am well contented,"* answered he of the Couchant Leopard; 
" but what security dost thou offer that thou wilt observe the truce?" 

" The word of a follower of the Prophet was never broken," an- 
swered the Emir. " It is thou, brave Nazarene, from whom I should de- 
mand security, did I not know that treason seldom dwells with courage."" 

The Crusader felt that the confidence of the Moslem made him 
ashamed of his own doubts. 

" By the cross of my sword," he said, laying his hand on the 
weapon as he spoke, " I will be true companion to thee, Saracen, 
while our fortune wills that we remain in company together." 

"By Mohammed, Prophet of God, and by Allah, God of the 
Prophet," replied his late foeman, " there is not treachery in my heart 
toward thee. And now wend we to yonder fountain, for the hour of 
rest is at hand, and the stream had hardly touched my lip when I was 
called to battle by thy approach." 

The Knight of the Couchant Leopard yielded a ready and cour- 
teous assent ; and the late foes, without an angry look, or gesture of 
doubt, rode side by side to the little cluster of palm-tree-s. 



524 ENGLISH LITERATURE 



NOTES TO THE TALISMAX 

Thb extract given is the fiist diapter of ''Ttr Ti :=~-r..'* It well 
illastiates Scott's laigenes of style, and his powers o: r? t : : r r 

The events narrated in ** The Talisman " are sut i - r i :.' - r i 

daring the Tliird Gnisade. This was undertaken by 7. t : : 1 
Emperor of Germany, with the support of Phillip 11. : : r : 7 : 

I., somamed Cmur de Li&n, oi Ei^^and. It accomplishe - : ; rr 

than the t^tablishment of a truce with Saladin, during whici^ l^c .:i:.v^c^c of 
visiting the holy places of Palestine ¥ras accx^ded to Ouisfians. 

** The Talisman " was Scott's iSrst attempt to treat an Eastern theme. 
In this field he had been preceded by other distinguished English writers. 
Southey in his " Tlialaba,'' Moore in his '^ Lalla Rookh,'' and B^on in 
several of his romantic tal«^ had treated Oriental scenes and characters with 
eminent succe^. Scott felt a hesitancy, as he tells us, about entering into 
rivalry with Ms iliostrious contemporaries, especially as he had never had an 
opportunity to observe the landscape and people that he undotook to describe. 
The result, however, showed his fears to be groundless, and served only to 
increase his oveishadowing reputation. 

1. Kni^ 0fik£ Red-erms^ Sir Kenneth of S«>tland. 

2. A name derived from the ancient classical writers. In Lat. Locus 
Asphaiiites. 

3. A£curs£d £iti.£s = Sodo-m. and Gomorrah. See Gen. xix. 24. 25. 

4. This name is taken from Gen. xiv. 10. 

5. See Dent. xxix. 23. 

6. Tbese features are exaggerated. Birds abound; and no noisome 
smeU nor noxious vapor arises from the lake. 

7. Nap&m contains no sulphur; hence the adjective must be taken as 
referring only to color. 

8- Barred keimit, — -See Webster. 

9. Haukerk = a shirt of mail formed of small steel rin^ interwoven. 
Tbe ** coat of linked mail " referred to above. See Webster, 
lo- H£ad-pi£€e = helmet. 

II. PentrnwueUe = a small flag or streamer borne at the lop of a lance. 
CMled also penceL 



NOTES TO THE TALISMAN. 525 

12. Stircoat = \k\(t long and flowing drapery of knights, anterior to the 
introduction of plate armor. 

13. Arms = armorial device or coat of arms. 

14. Crest = the plume of feathers, or other decoration, worn on a 
helmet. 

15. i'^;/^//)' = complete armor. From Gr. pan, all, and hoploii, im- 
plement of war, harness. 

16. Caftaji = a Persian or Turkish vest or garment. 

17. Saracen cavalier = Sheerkohf, the Lion of the Mountain, from 
Kurdistan. 

18. E7nir = an Arabian prince. As he informed Sir Kenneth afterwards, 
ten thousand men were read)' to take the field at his word. 

19. Lingua Franca = •a. kind of corrupt Italian, with a considerable 
admixture of French words. 



526 EXGLISH LITERATURE, 



LORD BYROX. 

Xo other poet has so embodied himself in his poetry as 
Byron. Had he not possessed a powerful individuality, his 
works would long since have perished. He was utterly lacking 
in the independent creative power of Shakespeare, who never 
identihed himself with his characters. Throughout B}Ton's 
many works, we see but one person — a proud, misanthropic, 
sceptical, ungovernable man. ^^"hatever exaggerations of fea- 
ture there may be in the portrait, we recognize the essential 
outlines of the poet himself. 

His poetry is largely biogi"aphical. and his utterance in- 
tense. \Mthout the careful artistic polish of many minor poets, 
his manner is rapid, stirring, powerful.' He was. perhaps, the 
most remarkable poetic genius of the centun,- ; yet his powers 
were not turned to the best account. He lacked the balance 
of a noble character and a well-regulated life. On reading a 
collection of Burns's poems, he once exclaimed: "What an 
antithetical mind 1 — tenderness, roughness — delicacy, coarse- 
ness — sentiment, sensuality — soaring and grovelling — dirt 
and deity — all mixed up in that one compound of inspired 
clay.*" The same antitheses might be applied with equal truth 
to himself. 

His place in literature is not yet lixed. '■ In my mind."' 
wrote Carlyle. " B}Ton has been sinking at an accelerated rate 
for the last ten years, and has now reached a ver}- low level."' 
On the other hand. Taine declares that " he is so great and so 
English, that from him alone we shall learn more truths of his 
country and his age than from all the rest put together." 

When the final verdict is made up. the Scotchman will 
probably be nearer the truth than the Frenchman. The finest 



LORD BYRON. 527 

strains of poetry are not to be found in his productions ; and 
the moral sense of the world has become too strong to approve 
his flippant scepticism or condone his shameful immoralities. 
He once called himself, " The grand Napoleon of the realms of 
rhyme." The comparison is not unjust; but in both cases 
alike, the glamour of brilliant achievement has been stripped 
off, and the forbidding personal character brought to light. 
Byron was endowed with extraordinary ability ; but in large 
measure he used his powers to vent his misanthropy, to mock 
at virtue and religion, and to conceal the hideousness of vice. 

George Gordon, Lord Byron, was born in London, Jan. 
22, 1788. His ancestry runs back in an unbroken line of no- 
bility to the time of William the Conqueror. His father was 
an unprincipled and heartless profligate, who married an heiress 
to get her property, and who, as soon as this was squandered, 
abandoned her. His mother was a proud, passionate,' hysteri- 
cal woman, who alternately caressed and abused her child. 
At one moment treating him with extravagant fondness, at the 
next-she reproached him as a "lame brat," and flung the poker 
at his head. " Your mother's a fool," said a school companion 
to him. " I know it," was the painful and humiliating answer. 
With such parentage and such rearing, it becomes us to temper 
somewhat the severity of our judgment of his character. 

He was sent to school at Harrow. " I soon found," wrote 
the head-master soon afterwards, " that a wild mountain colt 
had been submitted to my management." Byron did not take 
much interest in the prescribed studies, and never became an 
accurate scholar. His reading, however, was extensive, and he 
learned French and Italian. He formed a few warm friend- 
ships. During one of his vacations, he fell in love with Mary 
Ann Chaworth, whose father the poet's grand uncle had slain 
in a tavern brawl. He was fifteen, and she was two years 
older. Looking upon him as a boy, she did not take his at- 
tachment serioush', and a year later married another. To 
Byron, who loved her with all the ardor of his nature, it was a 
grievous disappointment ; and years afterwards, when he him- 



528 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

self stood at the altar, recollections of her disturbed his soul. 
The story is told in " The Dream," a poem of much beauty : — 

" The boy had fewer summers, but his heart 
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 
There was but one beloved face on earth." 

In 1805 Byron entered Trinity College, Cambridge, with 
which he was connected for nearly three years. Like many of 
his predecessors of independent genius — Bacon, Milton, Locke, 
Gibbon — he cared little for the university training. He was 
fond of out-door sports, and excelled in cricket, boxing, riding, 
and shooting. Along with a good deal of miscellaneous read- 
ing, he wrote verses, and in 1808 published a volume entitled 
" Hours of Idleness." The work gave little evidence of poetic 
genius, and was the subject of a rasping critique in the Edin- 
burgh Review. " The poesy of this young lord," it was said 
with some justice, "belongs to the class which neither gods 
nor men are said to permit. Indeed, we do not recollect to 
have seen a quantity of verse with so few deviations in either 
direction from that exact standard." 

While affecting contempt for public opinion, Byron was 
always acutely sensitive to adverse criticism ; and the exas- 
perating attack of the Edinhw'gh Review stung him like a blow, 
rousing him to fury. The result was, a little later, the furious 
and indiscriminate onslaught known as " English Bards and 
Scotch Reviewers." " Prepare," he shouted, — 

" Prepare for rhyme — I'll publish right or wrong; 
Fools are my theme, let satire be my song." 

The first edition was exhausted in a month. Though vio- 
lent, indiscriminate, and often unjust, the satire indicated 
something of his latent power. 

In 1809, after a few weeks of wild revel at his ancestral seat 
of Newstead Abbey, he set out upon his travels, and visited 
Portugal, Spain, Greece, and Turkey. His restless spirit found 
some degree of satisfaction in roving from place to place. 



LORD BYRON. 529 

While continuing to lead an ill-regulated life, he carried with 
him the eyes of a keen observer, and the sentiments of a great 
poet. His experience and observation are given in the first 
two cantos of '' Childe Harold's Pilgrimage." Though he 
affirmed that Childe Harold is a fictitious character, it is im- 
possible not to identify him with the poet himself. 

" Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth, 
Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight; 
But spent his days in riot most uncouth, 
And vexed with mirth the drowsy ear of night. 



And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, 
And from his fellow bacchanals would flee; 
'Tis said at times the sullen tear would start, 
But pride congealed the drop within his ee : 
Apart he stalked in joyless reverie. 
And from his native land resolved to go, 
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea; 
With pleasure drugged he almost longed for woe, 
And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below." 

The poem is written in the Spenserian stanza ; and the anti- 
quated style which he affected at first was soon cast aside. It 
opened a new field ; and its rich descriptions seized the public 
fancy. It ran through seven editions in four weeks; and to 
use the author's words, '• he woke up one morning and found 
himself famous,'' The other results of his Eastern travels are 
"The Giaour," "The Bride of Abydos," "The Corsair," and 
" Lara " — poetical romances of passion and violence, which 
were received with outbursts of applause. They surpassed 
Scott in his own field — a fact which he had the judgment to 
recognize and the manliness to confess. 

Byron had returned to England in 18 12, after an absence of 
two years ; and while the various works mentioned were appear- 
ing, he was leading a fashionable and dissipated life in London. 
When the right mood was on him, he had the power of making 



530 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

himself highly entertaining. His presence was striking. '' As 
for poets,*" says Scott. '" I have seen all the best of my time and 
country ; and though Burns had the most glorious eye imagin- 
able, I never thought any of them could come up to an artist's 
notion of the character except Byron. His countenance is a 
thing to dream of." 

B3Ton was naturally idolized by women ; but never discern- 
ing the nobler elements of their character, he set a low estimate 
upon them. " I regard them," he says, "'' as very prett}^ but in- 
ferior creatures, who are as little in their place at our tables as 
they would be in our council chambers. ... I look upon 
them as grow^n-up children."' 

In 1815 he married Miss Milbanke ; but there w^as no love 
on either side, and it proved an ill-assorted match. Though 
an excellent woman, his wdfe w-as exacting and unsympathetic. 
Impatient at his late hours, she inquired when he was going 
CO lea.ve off writing verses. On the other hand, he was iitful, 
violent, and immoral. 

At the end of a year, and after the birth of their daughter 
Ada, she went tg her father's, and informed B}Ton that she did 
not intend ever to return to him. The separation created a 
sensation ; and the burden of blame, as w^as no doubt just, fell 
upon him. He sank in popular esteem as suddenly as he had 
risen. He dared not go to the theatres for fear of being hissed, 
nor to Parliament for fear of being insulted. The result is given 
in his own words : " I felt that, if what was whispered and mut- 
tered and murmured was true. I was unfit for England; if false. 
England w^as unfit for me." Accordingly in 1816, disappointed 
and burdened at heart, he left his native shore never to return. 

" I depart, 
Whither I know not ; but the hour's gone by, 
When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye. 

Once more upon the waters ! yet once more ! 
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed 
That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar ! 
Swdft be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead! 



LORD BYRON. 53 1 

Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed, 
And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale, 
Still I must on ; for I am as a weed 
Flung from the rock, on ocean's foam to sail, 
Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail." 

With this vohmtary exile he entered upon a new era of 
authorship, in which he attained to the full maturity of his 
powers. At Geneva he wrote the third, and at Venice the 
fourth canto of "Childe Harold," and at once placed himself 
among the great masters of English verse. Landscapes of 
unsurpassed majesty and beauty are portrayed ; history lives 
again ; our feelings are stirred with deep emotion. Treasures 
are found on every page. For example : — 

" The sky is changed ! — and such a change ! O night, 
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, 
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light 
Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along. 
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among. 
Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone cloud, 
But every moiuitain now hath found a tongue, 
And Jura answers through her misty shroud, 
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud." 

Or again : — 

" I see before me the gladiator lie: 

He leans upon his hand — his manly brow 
Consents to death, but conquers agony, 
And his drooped head sinks gradually low — 
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow 
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, 
Like the first of a thunder shower; and now 
The arena swims around him — he is gone, 
Ere ceased the inhuman shout that hailed the wretch who won." 



Once more : — 



There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore. 
There is society where none intrudes, 
By the deep sea, and music in its roar : 



532 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

I love not man the less, but nature more, 
From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may be or have been before, 
To mingle with the universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal." 

At Geneva he wrote the touching story of Bonnivard, " The 
Prisoner of Chillon." 

From Switzerland, Byron went to Italy, living for a time at 
Venice, Ravenna, Piza, and Genoa. His Italian life was vo- 
luptuous and immoral. In every place of sojourn, however, he 
continued to write, composing many works of high excellence. 
" Cain " is a powerful drama. One of the characters is Lucifer, 
of whom Byron apologetically says, " It was difficult for me to 
make him talk like a clergyman upon the same subjects." 
"Manfred" and " Sardanapalus " are other dramas. The 
" Vision of Judgment," a satire on George the Third and " Bob 
Southey," is not reverent, but it is the wittiest production of 
its class in our language. " Don Juan," his longest poem, is a 
conglomerate of wit, satire, and immorality, relieved at inter- 
vals by sage refleH:tion and delicate poetic sentiment. It shows 
at once the author's genius and degradation. 

At length the aimless and voluptuous life he was leading 
filled him with satiety. He had drained the cup of pleasure 
to its dregs of bitterness. He began to long for a life of 
action. " If I live ten years longer," he wrote in 1822, "you 
will see that it is not all over with me. I don't mean in liter- 
ature, for that is nothing — and I do not think it was my voca- 
tion ; but I shall do something." 

Greece was at this time struggling for independence from 
Turkish tyranny. Byron was a friend of liberty ; the struggling 
Greeks touched his sympathies. Accordingly he embarked for 
Greece in 1823 to aid them in their struggle. As he was 
about to depart, the shadow of coming disaster fell upon him. 
" I have a sort of boding," he said to some friends, " that we 
see each other for the last time, as something tells me I shall 
never return from Greece." 



LORD BYRON. 533 

He was received at Mesolonghi with salvoes of musketry 
and music. He received a military commission, and in his 
subsequent movements displayed ability and courage. But 
before he had been of much assistance to the Greeks, he was 
seized with a virulent fever, and died April 9, 1824. The 
cities of Greece contended for his body; but it was taken to 
England, where, sepulture in Westminster Abbey having been 
refused, it was conveyed to the village church of Hucknall. 

Such lives are unutterably sad. Byron possessed what 
most men spend their lives for in vain — genius, rank, power, 
fame ; yet he lived a wretched man. His peace of mind was 
broken and his body prematurely worn by vicious passions. 
He was himself oppressed W4th a sense of failure ; and less 
than three months before his death he wrote : — 

" My days are in the yellow leaf; 

The flowers and fruits of love are gone ; 
The worm, the canker, and the grief, 
Are mine alone ! " 

Life had lost its charm ; and all he sought was a martial 
death in that land of ancient heroes. 

" Seek out, less often sought than found, 
A soldier's grave — for thee the best ; 
Then look around, and choose thy ground, 
And take thy rest." 



534 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 

I. 

My hair is gray, but not with years, 
Nor grew it white 
In a single night. 
As men's have grown from sudden fears : 
My limbs are bowM. though not with toil, 

But rusted with a vile repose, 
For they have been a dungeon's spoil. 

And mine has been the fate of those 
To whom the goodly earth and air 
Are bann'd and barr'd — forbidden fare ; 
But this was for my father's faith 
I suffered chains and courted death ; 
That father perished at the stake 
For tenets he v. ould not forsake ; 
And for the same his lineal race 
In darkness found a dwelling-place; 
We were seven ■ — who now are one, 

Six in youth, and one in age, 
Finished as they had begun. 

Proud of persecution's rage ; 
One in fire, and two in field. 
Their belief with blood have seal'd ; 
Dying as their father died. 
For the God their foes denied ; 
Three were in a dungeon cast. 
Of w^hom this wreck is left the last. 



There are seven pillars of Gothic mould, 

In Chillon's dungeons deep and old. 

There are seven columns, massy and gray, 

Dim with a dull imprison'd ray. 30 

A sunbeam which hath lost its way. 



THE PRISONER OE CHILLON. 535 

And through the crevice and the cleft 
Of the thick wall is fallen and left ; 
Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
Like a marsh's meteor lamp : 
And in each pillar there is a ring, 

And in each ring there is a chain ; 
That iron is a cankering^ thino^, 

For in these limbs its teeth remain, 
With marks that will not wear away, 40 

Till I have done with this new day, 
Which now is painful to these eyes, 
Which have not seen the sun to rise 
For years — I cannot count them o'er, 
I lost their long and heavy score 
When my last brother droopVl and died, 
And I lay living by his side. 



They chain'd us each to a column stone, 

And we were three — yet, each alone: 

We could not move a single pace, 50 

We could not see each other's face, 

But with that pale and livid light 

That made us strangers in our sight : 

And thus together — yet apart, 

Fetter'd in hand, but joined in heart, 

'Twas still some solace, in the dearth 

Of the pure elements of earth, 

To hearken to each other's speech. 

And each turn comforter to each 

With some new hope, or legend old, 60 

Or song heroically bold ; 

But even these at length grew cold. 

Our voices took a dreary tone, 

An echo of the dungeon-stone, 

A grating sound — not full and free 

As they of yore were wont to be : 

It might be fancy — but to me 
Thev never sounded like our own. 



536 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



I was the eldest of the three, 

And to uphold and cheer the rest 70 

I ought to do — and did — my best, 
And each did well in his degree. 

The youngest, whom my father loved, 
Because our mother's brow was given 
To him — with eyes as blue as heaven. 

For him my soul was sorely moved : 
And truly might it be distress'd 
To see such bird in such a nest ; 
For he was beautiful as day — 

(When day was beautiful to me 80 

As to young eagles, being free) — 

A polar day, which will not see 
A sunset till its summer's gone. 

Its sleepless summer of long light, 
The snow-clad offspring of the sun ! 

And thus he was as pure and bright, 
And in his natural spirit gay. 
With tears for nought but others' ills, 
And -then they flow'd like mountain rills. 
Unless he could assuage the woe 90 

Which he abhorred to view below. 



The other was as pure of mind, 
But form'd to combat with his kind ; 
Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, 
And perish'd in the foremost rank 

With joy : — but not in chains to pine : 
His spirit wather'd with their clank, 

I saw it silently decline — 

And so perchance in sooth did mine : 
But yet I forced it on to cheer 
Those relics of a home so dear. 
He was a hunter of the hills, 

Had follow'd there the deer and wolf; 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 537 

To him this dungeon was a gulf, 
And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. 

VI. 

Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls : 
A thousand feet in depth below 
Its massy waters meet and flow; 

Thus much the fathom-line was sent no 

From Chillon's snow-white battlement, 

Which round about the wave enthrals : 
A double dungeon wall and wave 
Have made — and like a living grave 
Below the surface of the lake 
The dark vault lies wherein we lay, 
We heard it ripple night and day ; 

Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd ; 
And I have felt the winter's spray 

Wash through the bars when winds were high 120 

And wanton in the happy sky ; 

And then the very rock hath rock'd, 

And I have felt it shake, unshock'd, 
Because I could have smiled to see 
The death that would have set me free. 

VII. 

I said my nearer brother pined, 

I said his mighty heart declined, 

He loathed and put away his food ; 

It was not that 'twas coarse and rude. 

For we were used to hunter's fare, 130 

And for the like had little care : 

The milk drawn from the mountain goat 

Was changed for water from the moat, 

Our bread was such as captives' tears 

Have moisten'd many a thousand years, 

Since man first pent his fellow-men 

Like brutes within an iron den ; 

But what were these to us or him? 

These wasted not his heart or limb ; 

My brothers soul was of that mould 140 



53^ ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Which in a palace had grown cold. 

Had his free breathing been denied 

The range of the steep mountain's side ; 

But why delay the truth ? — he died. 

I saw, and could not hold his head, 

Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead — 

Though hard I strove, but strove in vain. 

To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 

He died — and the}- unlocked his chain, 

And scooped for him a shallow grave J 5° 

Even from the cold earth of our cave. 

I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay 

His corse in dust whereon the day 

Might shine — it was a foolish thought, 

But then within my brain it wrought, 

That even in death his freeborn breast 

In such a dungeon could not rest. 

I might have spared my idle prayer — 

They coldly laugh'd — and laid him there : 

The flat and turfless earth above i6o 

The being we so much did love ; 

His .empty chain above it leant. 

Such murders fitting monument ! 

VIII. 

But he, the favourite and the flower, 

Most cherish'd since his natal hour. 

His mothers image in fair face. 

The infant love of all his race, 

His martyr'd fathers dearest thought, 

My latest care, for whom I sought 

To hoard my life, that his might be 170 

Less wretched now, and one day free ; 

He, too, who yet had held untired 

A spirit natural or inspired — 

He, too, was struck, and day by day 

Was withered as the stalk away. 

Oh. God ! it is a fearful thing 

To see the human soul take wing 

In any shape, in any mood: 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 539 

I've seen it rushing forth in blood, 

Tve seen it on the breaking ocean iSo 

Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, 

Tve seen the sick and ghastly bed 

Of sin delirious with its dread : 

But these were horrors — this was woe 

Unmix'd with such — but sure and slow : 

He faded, and so calm and meek, 

So softly worn, so sweetly weak, 

So tearless, yet so tender — kind, 

And grieved for those he left behind : 

With all the while a cheek whose bloom 190 

Was as a mockery of the tomb. 

Whose tints as gently sunk away 

As a departing rainbow's ray — 

An eye of most transparent light. 

That almost made the dungeon bright, 

And not a word of murmur — not 

A groan o'er his untimely lot, — 

A little talk of better days, 

A little hope my own to raise. 

For I was sunk in silence — lost 200 

In this last loss, of all the most ; 

And then the sighs he would suppress 

Of fainting nature's feebleness. 

More slowly drawn, grew less and less, 

I listened, but I could not hear — 

I caird. for I was wild with fear ; 

I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 

Would not be thus admonished ; 

I call'd and thought I heard a sound — 

I burst my chain with one strong bound, 210 

And rush'd to him : — I found him not, 

/ only stirred in this black spot, 

/ only lived — / only drew 

The accursed breath of dungeon-dew ; 

The last — the sole — the dearest link 

Between me and the eternal brink, 

Wliich bound me to my failing race, 

Was broken in this fatal place, 



540 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

One on the earth, and one beneath — 

JMy brothers — both had ceased to breathe : 220 

I took that hand which lay so still, 

Alas ! my own was full as chill ; 

I had not strength to stir, or strive, 

But felt that I was still alive — 

A frantic feeling, when we know 

That what we love shall ne'er be so. 

I know not why 

I could not die, 
I had no earthly hope -^ but faith. 
And that forbade a selfish death. 230 

IX. 

What next befell me then and there 

I know not well — I never knew — 
First came the loss of light, and air. 

And then of darkness too : 
I had no thought, no feeling — none — 
Among the stones I stood a stone. 
And was, scarce conscious what I wist, 
As shrubless crags within the mist ; 
For all was blank, and bleak, and gray ; 
It was not night — it was not day ; 240 

It was not even the dungeon-light, 
So hateful to my heavy sight. 
But vacancy absorbing space. 
And fixedness — without a place : 
There were no stars — no earth — no time — 
No check — no change — no good — no crime — 
But silence, and a stirless breath 
Which neither was of life nor death ; 
A sea of stagnant idleness, 
Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless ! 250 

X. 

A light broke in upon my brain, — 

It was the carol of a bird ; 
It ceased, and then it came again, 

The sweetest song ear ever heard, 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 54 1 

And mine was thankful till my eyes 

Ran over with the glad surprise, 

And they that moment could not see 

1 was the mate of misery ; 

But then by dull degrees came back 

My senses to their wonted track ; 260 

I saw the dungeon walls and floor 

Close slowly round me as before, 

I saw the glimmer of the sun 

Creeping as it before had done. 

But through the crevice where it came 

That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame, 

And tamer than upon the tree ; 
A lovely bird with azure wings. 
And song that said a thousand things. 

And seem'd to say them all for me ! 270 

I never saw its like before, 
I ne'er shall see its likeness more : 
It seem'd like me to want a mate, 
But was not half so desolate, 
And it was come to love me when 
None lived to love me so again, 
And cheering from my dungeon's brink. 
Had brought me back to feel and think. 
I know not if it late were free, 

Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 280 

But knowing well captivity, 

Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thine ! 
Or if it were, in winged guise, 
A visitant from Paradise ; 
For — Heaven forgive that thought ! ...e while 
Which made me both to weep and smile ; 
I sometimes deem'd that it might be 
My brother's soul come down to me ; 
But then at last away it flew, 

And then 'twas mortal well I knew, 290 

For he would never thus have flown, 
And left me twice so doubly lone, — 
Lone — as the corse within its shroud. 
Lone — as a solitary cloud. 



542 EXGLISII LITERATURE. 

A single cloud on a sunn}' day. 
While all the rest of hea\"en is clear, 
A frown upon the atmosphere, 
That hath no business to appear 

When skies are blue, and earth is gay. 

XI. 

A kind of change came in my fate. 3°° 

My keepers grew compassionate : 

I know not what had made them so, 

They were inured to sights of woe, 

But so it was : — my broken chain 

With links unfasten'd did remain. 

And it was liberty to stride 

Along my cell from side to side. 

And up and down, and then athwart. 

And tread it over every part : 

And round the pillars one by one, 310 

Returning where mv walk begun. 

Avoiding only, as I trod. 

My brothers" graves without a sod : 

For if I thought with heedless tread. 

My s'tep profaned their lowly bed. 

My breath came gaspingly and thick. 

And my crushed heart fell blind and sick. 

XII. 

I made a footing in the wall. 

It was not therefrom to escape. 
For I had buried one and all 32b 

Who loved me in a human shape : 
And the wdiole earth w'ould henceforth be 
A wider prison unto me : 
No child — no sire — no kin had I, 
No partner in mv misery : 
I thought of this, and I Avas glad. 
For thought of them had made me mad ; 
But I was curious to ascend 
To my barr'd windows, and to bend 

Once more upon the mountains high. 330 

The quiet of a loving eye. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 543 

XIII. 

I saw them — and they were the same. 

They were not changed Hke me in frame ; 

I saw their thousand 3ears of snow 

On high — their wide long lake below, 

And the blue Rhone in fullest flow ; 

I heard the torrents leap and gush 

O'er channeird rock and broken bush ; 

I saw the white-wall'd distant town, 

And whiter sails go skimming down ; 340 

And then there was a little isle, 

Which in my very face did smile, 

The only one in view ; 
A small green isle, it seemM no more, 
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, 
But in it there were three tall trees, 
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, 
And by it there were waters flowing, 
And on it there were young flowers growing. 

Of gentle breath and hue. 350 

The fish swam by the castle wall, 
And they seem'd joyous each and all ; 
The eagle rode the rising blast, 
Methought he never flew so fast 
As then to me he seem'd to fly. 
And then new tears came in my eye, 
And I felt troubled — and would fain 
I had not left my recent chain ; 
And when I did descend again. 

The darkness of my dim abode 360 

Fell on me as a heavy load ; 
It was as is a new-dug grave. 
Closing o'er one we sought to save, — 
And yet my glance, too much oppress'd, 
Had almost need of such a rest. 

XIV. 

It might be months, or years, or days, 
I kept no count — I took no note, 
I had no hope my eyes to raise, 



544 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

And clear them of their dreary mote ; 
At last men came to set me free, yi^ 

1 ask'd not why, and reck'd not where. 
It was at length the same to me, 
Fetter'd or fetterless to be, 

I learnM to love despair. 
And thus when they appeared at last, 
And all my bonds aside were cast, 
These heavy walls to me had grown 
A hermitage — and all my own ! 
And half I felt as they were come 

To tear me from a second home : 3^° 

With spiders I had friendship made. 
And watch'd them in their sullen trade, 
Had seen the mice by moonlight play. 
And why should I feel less than they? 
We were all inmates of one place, 
And I, the monarch of each race. 
Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell ! 
In quiet we had learn'd to dwell — 
My very chains and I grew friends, 

So njuch a long communion tends 39° 

To make us what we are : — even I 
Regained my freedom with a sigh. 



NOTES TO THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 545 



NOTES TO THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 

( The tnimbers refer to li?ies.) 

This poem was written in Switzerland in 1816, after Byron's final depart- 
ure from his native land. It belongs to the group of poems to which we 
may give the name of rojuantic tales. There is no resemblance between the 
hero of the poem and the historic prisoner of Chillon, of whom Byron knew 
little or nothing at the time he wrote. '* When the foregoing poem was 
composed," he frankly confesses, " I was not sufficiently aware of the history 
of Bonnivard, or I should have endeavored to dignify the subject by an 
attempt to celebrate his courage and his virtues." The Bonnivard of history, 
on whom the poet afterwards wrote a sonnet, was imprisoned for six years — 
from 1530 to 1536 — for political reasons. He was a man of extensive 
knowledge, upright aims, and heroic will. No brothers shared his imprison- 
ment. After his liberation he lived in honor in Geneva, for the liberties of 
which he had suffered. A sight of the dungeon, without an extended 
acquaintance with the history of the illustrious prisoner of Chillon, was 
sufficient material for the poet's powerful imagination to work upon. The 
story of the prisoner of Chillon, as here given, is almost pure fiction. 

3. In a single night, etc. — Byron has this note: " Ludovico Sforza, 
and others. The same is asserted of Marie Antoinette's, the wife of Louis 
XVI., though not in quite so short a period. Grief is said to have the same 
effect: to such, and not to fear, this change in hers was to be attributed." 

6. Rusted =^VL\2idi& weak and sluggish. 

10. Bami'd = forbidden, interdicted. From A. S. bannan, to proclaim. 
The word appears in its original sense in the phrase the banns of marriage. 

11. This should be it; or else line 12 should be omitted. The con- 
struction here may be taken as an illustration of Byron's occasional careless- 
ness of style. 

13. That father, etc. — He is represented as a Protestant. 

22. SeaT'd= confirmed, ratified. O. Fr. seel, Lat. sigillnm, a seal. 

28. Chillon = a celebrated castle and fortress in Switzerland. It is 
situated at the east end of Lake Geneva, on an isolated rock, almost entirely 
surrounded by deep water, and connected with the shore by a wooden bridge. 
The castle dates from the year 1238. 

30. Di/n with a dull, etc. — The poet has here taken some liberties with 



54^ ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

the facts. "The dungeon of Bonnivard," says jNIurray, in his "Handbook 
of Switzerland," "is airy and spacious, consisting of two aisles, almost like 
the crypt of a church. It is lighted by several windows, through which the 
sun's light passes by reflection from the surface of the lake up to the roof, 
transmitting partly also the blue color of the waters." 

41. This new day. — The prisoner, as we learn from stanza 14, had been 
released after years of imprisonment; and the light of the open sky seemed 
new to him. 

45. 6'(rc:irt' = account or reckoning. From. A. S. sccran, to cut. Ac- 
counts were once kept by r///////f^ notches on a stick. 

55. Fettered in hand. — Fetters were originally shackles for the feet, as 
manacles were shackles for the hands. 
57. Pnre elements = air and light. 

63. Our voices, etc. — Privations and suffering sometimes materially 
change the voice. On one occasion, when two Arctic exploring parties were 
reunited after a protracted separation, " the doctor," says Franklin, " par- 
ticularly remarked the sepulchral tone of our voices, which he requested us 
to make more cheerful if possible, not aware that his own partook of the same 
key." 

71. Cz(f^/// = was under obligation. Here a past tense, though com- 
monly used in the present. 

95. Had stood ^^wQvX^ have stood. 
97. To pine depends on ivas formed \n line 93. 
loi. I forced it on. — He speaks of his spirit as of a weary, fainting 
soldier. 

102. Those relics = his two brothers. Literally, that which is left. Lat. 
relinquere, to leave. 

107. Lake Leman = Lake of Geneva. 

loS. A thousand feet, etc. — Byron says in a note: " Below the castle, 
washing its walls, the lake has been fathomed to the depth of eight hundred 
feet. . . . The chateau is large, and seen along the lake for a great distance. 
The walls are white." 

112. IVave is the subject of enthralls. See line 28. 

122. Rock hath rocked. — We cannot consider this word-play as felicitous. 
The noun rock and the verb rock are of different origin. 

142. Had his free, etc. = if his free breathing had been denied. 
148. Gnash = break by \aolent bitings. 

152. Boon = a favor, deed of grace. From Fr. bon, Lat. bonus, good. 
155. Compare the following lines in Coleridge's " Christabel " : — 

" And to be wroth with one we love 
Doth work like madness in the brain." 



NOTES TO THE PRISONER OF CHILL ON. 54/ 

172. Yei ^= hitherto, thus far. 

189. And grieved for those, etc. — "There is much delicacy," says 
Hales, " in this plural. By such a fanciful multiplying of the survivors, the 
elder brother prevents self-intrusion; himself and his loneliness are, as it 
were, kept out of sight and forgotten. There is a not unlike sensitiveness in 
the Scotch phrase, 'them that's awa',' of some single lost one. The grief is 
softened by vagueness." 

230. Selfish death = self-inflicted death. 

231. What next befell, etc. — The following description of the prisoner's 
deadly stupor is graphic and powerful. It has been much admired. 

237. JFist= knew; past tense of A. S. witan, to know. 

252. // 7aas the carol, etc. — The sympathies of his nature were awakened 
again. In a similar manner the spell of the Ancient Mariner was broken by 
the sight of iris-hued serpents disporting in the water: — 

" A spring of love gushed from my heart, 
And I blessed them unaware." 

In Goethe's great w^ork, Faust is recalled from despair by a chime of bells 
and a choral song. Dashing the cup of poison from his lips, he exclaims: — 

" Sound on, ye hymns of Heaven, so sweet and mild ! 
My tears gush forth : the earth takes back her child."' 

327. Had 7?iade = would have made. 

335. The blue Rhone. — This statement is not strictly correct. At its 
entrance into the lake, the Rhone is of the common color of glacier streams; 
it does not become blue till it leaves the lake at Geneva. 

339. White-walled, distant toivn = Villeneuve. 

341. Little isle. — In a note to this passage Byron says: " Between the 
entrances of the Rhone and Villeneuve, not far from Chillon, is a very small 
island; the only one I could perceive, in my voyage round and over the lake, 
within its circumference. It contains a few trees (I think not above three), 
and from its singleness and diminutive size has a peculiar effect upon the 
view." 



54^ • ENGLISH LITERATURE^ 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 

In striking contrast with the restless, passionate life of 
Byron stands the peaceful, uneventful life of Wordsworth. In- 
stead of furious, tormenting passions, there is a self-poised, 
peaceful life of contemplation. Byron imparted to the beauti- 
ful or sublime scenes of nature the colorings of his turbulent 
thoughts and violent emotions ; Wordsworth brought to moun- 
tain, stream, and flower the docility of a reverent and loving 
spirit. His soul was open to the lesson of the outward M^orld, 
which to him was pervaded by an invisible presence. In his 
pride and misanthropy, Byron felt no sympathy with the suf- 
ferings and struggles of humanity. His censorious eye per- 
ceived only the foibles and frailties that lie on the surface. 
With a far nobler spirit and a keener insight, Wordsworth dis- 
cerned beauty and grandeur in human life, and aspired to be 
helpful to his fellow-men. " It is indeed a deep satisfaction," 
he wrote near the close of his life, "to hope and believe that 
my poetry will be, while it lasts, a help to the cause of virtue 
and truth, especially among the young." While Byron trampled 
on the laws of morality, ruined his home, and turned the joys 
of life to ashes, Wordsworth lived in the midst of quiet domestic 
happiness — humble indeed, but glorified by fidelity, friendship, 
and love. Byron died in early manhood enslaved by evil 
habits and oppressed with the emptiness of life; Wordsworth 
reached an honored old age, and passed away upheld with 
precious hopes. The one may be admired for his power and 
meteoric splendor; the other will be honored and loved for 
his upright character, his human sympathy, and his helpful 
teachings. 

William Wordsworth was born at Cockermouth in Cumber- 



I 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 549 

land County, April 7, 1770, of an ancient family. His violent 
and moody temper as a child filled his mother with anxiety 
about his future. He in no way distinguished himself at 
school, though some of the verses he then composed were well 
spoken of. 

At the age of seventeen he entered Cambridge, where he 
gave no promise of his future greatness. His genius developed 
slowly. It was not from books, but from nature, that he derived 
the greatest inspiration and help. The celebrated Lake Dis- 
trict, in which he was born and in which his school days and 
the greater part of his maturity were spent, is a region of varied 
and beautiful scenery. With its mountains, forests, and lakes, 
it is grander than the typical English landscape, yet witlVout 
the overpowering sublimity of Switzerland. It was a region 
specially suited to awaken and develop the peculiar powers of 
Wordsworth. He moved among the natural beauties of the 
country with an ill-defined but exquisite pleasure. In his own 

words, — 

" The ever-living universe 
Turn where I might, was opening out its glories; 
And the independent spirit of pure youth 
Called forth at every season new delights 
Spread round my steps like sunshine o'er green fields." 

In 1 79 1 Wordsworth took the degree of Bachelor of Arts, 
and left the university without having decided upon a voca- 
tion. " He did not feel himself good enough for the church," 
he said years afterwards ; " he felt that his mind was not prop- 
erly disciplined for that holy office, and that the struggle be- 
tween his conscience and his impulses would have made life a 
torture." He was disinclined to the law; and though he fan- 
cied that he had talents for the profession of arms, he feared 
that he might fall a prey to disease in foreign lands. He 
passed some time in London without a definite aim and also 
without much profit. He felt out of place amidst the rush and 
din of the city. Like the "Farmer of Tilsbury Vale," whom 
he afterwards described : — 



55Q ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

" In the throng of the town Hke a stranger is he, 
Like one whose own country's far over the sea; 
And nature, while through the great city he hies. 
Full ten times a day takes his heart by surprise." 

After a few months he went to France for the purpose of 
learning the language. His sympathies, which had been with 
the revolutionists, were intensified by an acquaintance at 
Orleans with the republican general Beaupuis. Returning to 
Paris, Wordsworth contemplated placing himself at the head of 
the Girondist party — a step that would inevitably have brought 
him to the guillotine. From this danger he was saved by his 
friends, who, not in sympathy with his republicanism, stopped 
his allowance, and thus compelled him to return to England. 
The excesses into which the Revolution ran were a rude shock 
to him. He was driven to the verge of scepticism : — 

"Even the visible universe 
Fell under the dominion of a taste 
Less spiritual, with microscopic view 
Was scanned, as I had scanned the moral world." 

But his thoughtful nature could not rest in unbelief. A 
sympathetic study of nature, the beautiful devotion of his sister 
Dorothy, and a deeper insight into the lives of men, restored 
his healthfulness and peace of mind. As he advanced in years, 
he gave up the ardent republican hopes of his youth, and set- 
tled down into a staid conservatism. 

There are few lives, that might better serve to illustrate the 
doctrine of a special providence. All through his career, the 
needed help came to him at the right moment. Wordsworth 
had nursed with tender care a young man attacked by con- 
sumption. Upon his death it was found that he had left the 
poet a legacy of nine hundred pounds. Nothing could have 
come more opportunely. With this small sum Wordsworth set- 
tled with his sister in a little cottage at Racedown in Dorset- 
shire. Here he began to devote himself to poetry in earnest. 
In his sister he found a congenial and helpful companion. She 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 55 I 

filled his home with sunshine. Her poetic sensibilities were 
keenly alive to the beauties of nature. In grateful recognition 
of her helpfulness, the poet says : — 

" She gave me eyes, she gave me ears, 
And humble cares, and deUcate fears; 
A heart the fountain of swc^t tears; 
And love, and thought, and joy." 

With a beautiful devotion she found her life-work in aiding 
her gifted brother to fulfil his mission. 

The first volume of Wordsworth is entitled "Lyrical Bal- 
lads." It was published in 1798, and contained, besides Col- 
eridge's "Ancient Mariner," and several pieces that were 
ridiculed for triviality, " We are Seven," " Expostulation and 
Reply," "The Tables Turned," and above all ''Tintern Ab- 
bey,'" all of which contain the essential principles of Words- 
worth's poetry. Indeed, the " Tintern Abbey " more than any 
other single poem contains the revelation that the poet had to 
make to the world. 

Unfortunately the trivial pieces attracted most attention, 
and the work was received with coldness and ridicule. " The 
Idiot Boy " — a delightful poem to those who can feel the 
pathos of childish imbecility and the beauty of maternal love 
and solicitude — was the subject of one of the crudest passages 
in the " English Bards and Scotch Reviewers." Speaking of 
Wordsworth, whom he denominates " a mild apostate from 
poetic rule," Byron continues: — 

" Thus when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, 
The idiot mother of an idiot boy, 
A moon-struck silly lad who lost his way. 
And like his bard confounded night with day, 
So close on each pathetic part he dwells. 
And each adventure so sublimely tells, 
That all who view the idiot in his glory, 
Conceive the bard the hero of the story." 

Immediately after the publication of the " Lyrical Ballads," 
Wordsworth and his sister went to Germany in order to improve 



552 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

their imperfect acquaintance with the German language. They 
passed the Vvdnter at Goslar ; but as they seem to have made 
no acquaintances, tlieir means of advancement was confined to 
reading German books privately. 

The winter was severe, and their comforts were few. 
Wordsworth says : " I slept in a room over a passage that 
was not ceiled. The people of the house used to say, rather 
unfeelingly, that they expected that I should be frozen to death 
some night." Notwithstanding these discomforts, his muse was 
active, and he produced some of his most charming and char- 
acteristic pieces, among which are " Lucy Gray," " Ruth," 
" Nutting," and the " Poet's Epitaph." It was here, too, that 
the " Prelude," the poetical autobiography of the author's 
mental growth, was begun. "The Prelude," says a biographer, 
" is a book of good augury for human nature. We feel in read- 
ing it as if the stock of m^ankind were sound. The soul seems 
going on from strength to strength by the mere development of 
her inborn power." 

Wordsworth returned to England in 1799, and settled at 
Grasmere in thq Lake District, in which he spent the rest of 
his life. The following year he published a new edition of the 
" Lyrical Ballads," containing many new pieces and the famous 
preface in which he laid down his poetical canons. These 
canons maybe briefly stated as follows: i. Subjects are to be 
taken from rustic or common life, " because in that condition 
the essential passions of the heart find a better soil, in which 
they can attain their maturity, are less under restraint, and 
speak plainer and more emphatic language." 2. The language 
of common life, purified from its defects, is to be adopted, be- 
cause men of that station " hourly communicate with the best 
objects from which the best part of language is originally de- 
rived ; and because, . . . being less under the action of social 
vanity, they convey their feelings and notions in simple and 
unelaborated expressions." 3. "There neither is nor can be 
any essential difference between the language of prose and 
metrical composition." 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 553 

The most, perhaps, that can be said in favor of these prin- 
ciples is that, without being absohitely true, they contain ele- 
ments of truth. Like Burns, Wordsworth has conferred a 
blessing on humanity in pointing out the beauty of common- 
place objects and incidents. We cannot spare "We are Seven," 
or " Michael," which ought to be one of our most popular 
poems. His naturalness of diction is to be commended. Yet 
it must be said that Wordsworth sometimes carries his princi- 
ples to a ridiculous extent. When he hits upon phrases like 
" dear brother Jim," and objects like " skimmed milk," and — 

" A household tub, hke one of those 
Which women use to wash their clothes," 

his greatest admirers are forced to grieve. 

Wordsworth's life in the Lake District was characterized 
by great simplicity. There were no stirring events, no great 
changes. His resources were increased by the payment of an 
old debt due his father's estate. His marriage, in 1802, to Miss 
Mary Hutchinson, brought into his home a real helpmate. 
Though decidedly domestic in her turn, she was not without 
poetic feeling, and appreciated her husband's genius. The 
poet paid her this glowing tribute : — 

"A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A traveller between life and death; 
The reason firm, the temperate will, 
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; 
A perfect woman nobly planned, 
To warn, to comfort, and command; 
And yet a spirit still, and bright 
With something of angelic light." 

With true feminine tact she presided over the poet's home, 
and softened as far as possible the unconscious egotism into 
which his retirement and contemplation had betrayed him. 
Dorothy Wordsworth shared their home. The life of this 
happy family was an illustration of " plain living and high 
thinking." Much time was spent in the open air, and every 



554 ENGLISH LITER A TURE. ' 

foot of ground in the neighborhood was traversed by the poet 
and his sister. A large part of his verse was composed during 
these daily rambles. While extending a cordial welcome to 
congenial friends, — DeQuincey, Coleridge, Wilson, Southey, 
and others, — he cared little for neighborhood gossip. To him 
it was a fruitless waste of time. As he tells us in the sonnets 
entitled " Personal Talk : " — 

" Better than such discourse doth silence long, 
Long, barren silence, square with my desire; 
To sit without emotion, hope, or aim, 
In the loved presence of my cottage fire, 
And listen to the flapping of the flame. 
Or kettle whispering its faint undersong." 

This quiet, humble, reflective life is beautiful ; yet it has its 
objectionable features. It leads to narrow and one-sided views 
of life. It is not the way in which to develop a strong or 
heroic character. Yet it was adapted to Wordsworth's genius, 
and produced a rich fruitage. 

The first great sorrow that came into the poet's life was the 
death of his brother John, captain of an East Indiaman. His 
vessel was wrecked in 1805. and sank with the captain at his 
post of duty. He had several years previously spent a few 
months at Grasmere, and was looking forward to the time when 
he might settle there for life. 

A strong attachment existed between him and his brother. 
It was but natural, therefore, that the poet should write : " For 
myself, I feel that there is something cut out of my life which 
cannot be restored. I never thought of him but with hope and 
delight. We looked forward to the time, not distant, as we 
thought, when he would settle near us — when the task of his 
life would be over, and he would have nothing to do but reap 
his reward. ... I never wrote a line without the thought 
of giving him pleasure ; my writings, printed and manuscript, 
were his delight, and one of the chief solaces of his long voy- 
ages." The same year saw the death of Nelson at Trafalgar. 
The death of the hero brought grief to the national heart. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 555 

Combining the traits of his brother John and Admiral Nelson, 
Wordsworth composed "The Happy Warrior," a poem of great 
dignity and weight — a veritable manual of greatness. Who is 
the happy warrior ? He who owes, — 

"To virtue every triumph that he knows; 
Who, if he rise to station of command, 
Rises by open means; and there will stand 
On honorable terms, or else retire, 
And in himself possess his own desire; 
Who comprehends his trust, and to the same 
Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; 
And therefore does not stoop nor lie in wait 
For wealth, or honors, or for worldly state; 
Whom they must follow, on whose head must fall, 
Like showers of manna, if they come at all." 

Every year increased the number of notable poems. There 
are two or three that deserve especial mention as embodying 
peculiar views — to some extent Wordsworth's philosophy of 
life. In a little poem called "The Rainbow," he says : — 

'• My heart leaps up when I behold 

A rainbow in the sky : 
So was it when my life began ; 
So is it now I am a man; 
So be it when I shall grow old. 

Or let me die ! 
The child is father of the man; 
And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety." 

Far more is here expressed than appears at first reading. 
"Wordsworth holds," to adopt the excellent interpretation by 
Myers, " that the instincts and pleasures of a healthy childhood 
sufficiently indicate the lines on which our maturer character 
should be formed. The joy which began in the mere sense of 
existence should be maintained by hopeful faith ; the simplicity 
which began in inexperience should be recovered by medita- 
tion ; the love which originated in the family circle should 
expand itself over the race of men." In the "Ode to Duty," 



556 EXGLISH LITERATURE. 

one of ^^'ordwo^th■s noblest productions, we meet with this 
'* genial sense of youth : "" — 

"Serene will be our days and bright, 
And happy will our nature be, 
When love is an unerring light, 
And joy its own security." 

In the " Ode on Immortality," in which we have perhaps 
the highest attainment of poetry in this century, he makes use of 
the Platonic doctrine of the pre-existence of the soul to account 
for the glory that hovers over the visible world in childhood. 
As the child looks upon the various objects of earth and sky. 
he unconsciously invests them, the poet says, with the splendor 
of the spiritual world from which he has come. But as life 
advances, these recollections of a previous existence become 
fainter and fainter, and at last the world degenerates into a 
commonplace reality. Now read these splendid lines : — 

' • Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
The soul that rises with us, our life's star, 

Hath had elsewhere its setting. 
And cometh from afar : 

Not in entire forgetfulness, 

And not in utter nakedness, 
But trailing clouds of glorj- do we come 

From God, who is our home : 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
Shades of the prison house begin to close 

Upon the growing boy. 
But he beholds the light and whence it flows, 

He sees it in his joy: 
The youth, who daily further from the east 

Must travel, still is nature's priest. 

And by the vision splendid 

Is on his way attended; 
At length the man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the light of common day." 

In 1813 Wordsworth removed to Rydal Mount, where he 
spent the rest of his life. With increasing family — three sons 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 557 

and two daughters had been born unto him — came increasing 
wants and expenditures. His good fortune did not desert him. 
He was appointed distributer of stamps for the county of West- 
moreland — an office that brought him httle labor, but five hun- 
dred pounds a year. 

The following year he published " The Excursion," a tedious 
and prosaic poem relieved here and there with passages of sur- 
passing beauty. It was coldly received, and proved a financial 
loss. Jeffrey began a famous review with the contemptuous 
sentence, " This will never do." Up to this time Wordsworth 
had been the subject of continuously unfavorable criticism. 
No other writer, perhaps, ever had so protracted a struggle to 
gain a proper recognition. 

But through all this long period of misrepresentation and 
detraction, Wordsworth did not lose confidence in himself. 
His genius was its own sufficient witness. He felt a pity for 
the ignorance of the world, but looked forward to a time when 
the merits of his poetry would be recognized. Writing to a 
friend, he says : " Let me confine myself to my object, which 
is to make 3^ou, my dear friend, as easy hearted as myself with 
respect to these poems. Trouble not yourself upon their pres- 
ent reception. Of what moment is that compared with what 
I trust is their destiny } — to console the afflicted ; to add sun- 
shine to daylight, by making the happy happier ; to teach the 
young and the gracious of every age to see, to think and feel, 
and therefore to become more actively and securely virtuous ; 
this is their office, which I trust they will faithfully perform 
long after we (that is, all that is mortal of us) are mouldered in 
our graves." What in many a man would savor of egotism 
comes from the lips of Wordsworth with the calm dignity of 
conscious strength. 

His hopes were not disappointed. The latter years of his 
life brought him great popularity and honor. In 1839 ^^e 
University of Oxford conferred upon him the degree of Doctor 
of Civil Law ; three 3^ears later the government granted him a 
pension of three hundred pounds ; and upon the death of 



558 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Southey he became poet laureate. His pure and peaceful life 
came to an end April 23, 1850. " And surely of him, if of any 
one, we may think as of a man who was so in accord with 
nature, so at one with the very soul of things, that there can be 
no mansion of the universe which shall not be to him a home, 
no Governor who will not accept him among his servants, and 
satisfy him with love and peace." 



TIN TERN ABBEY. 559 



LINES 

COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE 
BANKS OF THE WYE, DURING A TOUR. 

July 13, 1798. 

Five years have past ; five summers, with tlie length 

Of five long winters ! and again I hear 

These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs 

With a sweet inland murmur. Once again 

Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs. 

That on a wild secluded scene impress 

Thoughts of more deep seclusion, and connect 

The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 

The day is come when I again repose 

Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 10 

These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts. 

Which at this season, with their unripe fruits. 

Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 

Among the woods and copses, nor disturb 

The wild green landscape. Once again I see 

These hedgerows — hardly hedgerows — little lines 

Of sportive wood run wild ; these pastoral farms. 

Green to the very door ; and wreaths of smoke 

Sent up, in silence, from among the trees, 

With some uncertain notice, as might seem 20 

Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods. 

Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire 

The hermit sits alone. 

These beauteous forms. 
Through a long absence, have not been to me 
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye ; 
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them. 
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet. 
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart ; 
And passing even into my purer mind, 3° 

With tranquil restoration : feelings too 



560 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Of unremembered pleasure : such, perhaps, 

As have no shght or trivial influence 

On that best portion of a good man's life — 

His little, nameless, unremembered acts 

Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust. 

To them I may have owed another gift, 

Of aspect more sublime : that blessed mood. 

In which the burden of the mystery. 

In which the heavy and the weary weight 40 

Of all this unintelligible world, 

Is lightened : that serene and blessed mood 

In which the affections gently lead us on, 

Until, the breath of this corporeal frame 

And even the motion of our human blood 

Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 

In body, and become a living soul : 

While with an eye made quiet by the power 

Of harmony, and the deep power of joy. 

We see into the life of things. 

If this , 50 

Be but a vain belief, yet. oh I how oft. 
In darkness, and amid the many shapes 
Of joyless daylight, when the fretful stir 
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, 
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart — 
How oft. in spirit, have I turned to thee, 

svlvan Wye I Thou wanderer thro" the woods. 
How often has my spirit turned to thee I 

And now. with gleams of half-extinguished thought. 
With many recognitions dim and faint, 60 

And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 
The picture of the mind revives again ; 
While here I stand, not only with the sense 
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts 
That in this moment there is life and food 
For future years. And so I dare to hope. 
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first 

1 came among these hills : when like a roe 
I bounded o'er the mountains, bv the sides 



TIN TERN ABBEY. 56 1 

Of the deep rivers and the lonely streams, 7° 

Wherever nature led : more like a man 

Flying from something that he dreads than one 

Who sought the thing he loved. For Nature then 

(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, 

And their glad animal movements all gone by) 

To me was all in all. I cannot paint 

What then I was. The sounding cataract 

Haunted me like a passion ; the tall rock, 

The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, 

Their colors and their forms, were then to me 80 

An appetite, a feeling and a love. 

That had no need of a remoter charm, 

By thought supplied, nor any interest 

Unborrowed from the eye. That time is past, 

And all its aching joys are now no more. 

And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 

Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur ; other gifts 

Have followed, for such loss, I would believe, 

Abundant recompense. For I have learned 

To look on Nature, not as in the hour 9° 

Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes 

The still, sad music of humanity, 

Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power 

To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 

A presence that disturbs me with the joy 

Of elevated thoughts : a sense sublime 

Of something far more deeply interfused, 

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 

And the round ocean and the living air 

And the blue sky, and in the mind of man : 100 

A motion and a spirit, that impels 

All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 

And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still 

A lover of the meadows and the woods 

And mountains, and of all that we behold 

From this green earth ; of all the mighty world 

Of eye and ear, both what they half create 

And what perceive ; well pleased to recognize 

In Nature and the language of the sense 



562 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

The anchor of my purest thoughts ; the nurse, no 

The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 
Of all my moral being. 

Nor. perchance, 
If I were not thus taught, should I the more 
Suffer my genial spirits to decay : 
For thou art with me here upon the banks 
Of this fair river; thou, my dearest friend. 
My dear, dear friend, and in thy voice I catch 
The language of my former heart, and read 
My former pleasures in the shooting lights 
Of thy wild eyes. Oh ! yet a little while 12c 

May I behold in thee what I was once, 
My dear, dear sister ! and this prayer I make, 
Knowing that Nature never did betray 
The heart that loved her ; "tis her privilege, 
Through all the years of this our life, to lead 
From joy to joy : for she can so inform 
The mind that is within us, so impress 
With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, 
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, 13c 

Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
The dreary intercourse of daily life. 
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon 
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ; 
And let the misty mountain winds be free 
To blow against thee ; and in after-years, 
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 
Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind 140 

Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 
For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; oh ! then. 
If solitude or fear or pain or grief 
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts 
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, 
And these my exhortations ! Nor, perchance 
If I should be where I no more can hear 



TIXTERN ABBEY. 563 

Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild e3'es these gleams 

Of past existence, wilt thou then forget 150 

That on the banks of this delightful stream 

We stood together ; and that I, so long 

A worshipper of Nature, hither came 

Unwearied in that service : rather say 

With warmer love, oh ! with far deeper zeal 

Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget. 

That after many wanderings, many years 

Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs. 

And this green pastoral landscape, were to me 

More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake. 160 



564 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



ODE. 

INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY 
CHILDHOOD. 

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 
The earth, and every common sight 
To me did seem 
Apparelled in celestial light, 
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
It is not now as it hath been of yore ; — 
Turn wheresoe'er I may, 
By night or day. 
The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 

The rainbow comes and goes, 10 

And lovely is the rose ; 

The moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heaven is bare ; 

Waters on a starry night 

Are beautiful and fair ; 
The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
But yet I know, wherever I go. 
That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. 

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, 

And while the. young lambs bound 20 

As to the tabor's sound, 
To me alone there came a thought of grief: 
A timely utterance gave that thought relief. 

And I again am strong : 
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep ; 
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong ; 
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng, 
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, 
And all the earth is gay ; 

Land and sea 3° 

Give themselves up to jollity, 



INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 565 

And with the heart of May 
Doth every beast keep hohday ; — 
Thou child of joy, 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 
Shepherd boy ! 

Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make ; I see 
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; 

My heart is at your festival, 4° 

My head hath its coronal, 
The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. 

Oh evil day ! if I were sullen 

While earth herself is adorning, 
This sweet May morning, 

And the children are culling 
On every side. 

In a thousand valleys far and wide, 

Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm, 
And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm ; 50 

I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 

— But there's a tree, of many, one, 
A single field which I have looked upon, 
Both of them speak of something that is gone : 

The pansy at my feet 

Doth the same tale repeat : 
Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? 

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 

The soul that rises with us, our life's star, 60 

Hath had elsewhere its setting, 

And Cometh from afar : 
Not in entire forgetfulness. 
And not in utter nakedness, 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come 

From God, who is our home. 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 
Upon the growing boy, 



566 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

But he beholds the light, and whence it flows ; 7° 

He sees it in his joy. 
The youth who daily farther from the east 
Must travel, still is nature's priest, 
And by the vision splendid 
Is on his way attended ; 
At length the man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the light of common day. 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; 
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind. 
And, even with something of a mothers mind, So 

And no unworthy aim, 
The homely nurse doth all she can 
To make her foster-child, her inmate man, 

Forget the glories he hath known, 
And that imperial palace whence he came. 
Behold the child among his new-born bHsses, 
A six-years' darling of a pigmy size ! 
See where, 'mid work of his own hand, he lies. 
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses. 

With light upon him from his father's eyes ! 9° 

See at his feet some little plan or chart, 
Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
Shaped by himself with newly learned art ; 
A wedding or a festival, 
A mourning or a funeral ; 

And this hath now his heart. 
And unto this he frames his song ; 

Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife. 

But it will not be long loo 

Ere this be thrown aside, 
And with new joy and pride 
The little actor cons another part, 
Filling from time to time his " humorous stage " 
With all the persons, down to palsied age, 
That life brings with her in her equipage. 
As if his whole vocation 
Were endless imitation. 



INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 56/ 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth behe 

Thy soul's immensity ; no 

Thou best philosopher, who yet doth keep 
Thy heritage ; .thou eye among the blind, 
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep. 
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind, — 

Mighty prophet, seer blest ! 

On whom those truths do rest. 
Which we are toihng all our lives to find. 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ; 
Thou, over whom thine Immortality 

Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, 120 

A presence which is not to be put by ; 
Thou little child, yet glorious in the might 
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height. 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke. 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, 
And custom lie upon thee with a weight 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 

O joy ! that in our embers 13° 

Is something that doth live, 
That nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive ! 
The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
Perpetual benediction ; not indeed 
For that which is most worthy to be blest ; 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast : 

Not for these I raise 140 

The song of thanks and praise ; 
But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things, 
Fallings from us, vanishings. 
Blank misgivings of a creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized. 
High instincts before which our mortal nature 



568 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised ; 
But for those lirst affections, 

Those shadowy recollections 150 

Which, be they what they may, 
Are yet the fountain-light of all our day. 
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing ; 

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal silence : truths that wake 

To perish never : 
Which neither listlessness nor mad endeavor, 

Nor man, nor boy. 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 160 

Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 

Hence in a season of calm weather, 
Though inland far we be, 
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea, 
Which brought us hither ; 
Can in a moment travel thither, 
And see the children sport upon the shore, 
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 

Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song ! 

And let the young lambs bound 170 

As to the tabors sound ! 
We in thought will join your throng, 

Ye that pipe and ye that play, 

Ye that through 3our hearts to-day 

Feel the gladness of the May ! 
What though the radiance which was once so bright 
Be now for ever taken from my sight — 
Though nothing can bring back the hour 
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; 
We will grieve not, rather find 180 

Strength in what remains behind ; 
In the primal sympathy. 
Which having been must ever be : 
In the soothing thoughts that spring 
Out of human suffering ; 
In the faith that looks through death, 



INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTAIITY. 569 

In years that bring the philosophic mind. 

And, O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, 

Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 19° 

I only have relinquished one delight 

To live beneath your more habitual sway. 

I love the brooks which down their channels fret. 

Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ; 

The innocent brightness of a new-born day 

Is lovely yet ; 
The clouds that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober colouring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man''s mortality ; 
Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 200 

Thanks to the human heart by which we live. 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears ; 
To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 



570 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



NOTES TO TIXTERX ABBEY. 

( TJie 7Uimbers refer to li?ies.) 

TlXTERN Abbey is a famous ecclesiastical ruin on the right bank of the 
Wye in Monmouthshire. It was founded in 1131. Though the Abbey is 
mentioned in the title, it is not referred to at all in the poem itself. 

The poem was composed in a single day. In the words of Myers, " The 
lines written above Tuitern Abbey have become, as it were, the locus 
classicus, or consecrated formulary of the Wordsworthian faith. They say in 
brief what it is the work of the poet's biographer to say in detail." 

I. Fiz-e SKmviers, etc. — The poet had visited the same spot five years 
before, during the restless period that followed his graduation at Cambridge. 
4. Once again, etc. — As we have already learned, Wordsworth's love 
of nature was intense. Having once seen this beautiful spot, he could not 
forget it. In the following lines of this paragraph, he dwells with lo\-ing 
tenderness on the various objects of beauty — the lofty cliffs, the secluded 
landscape, the cottages, orchards, hedgerows, — 

•■ And wreaths of smoke 
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees." 

27. I have ozved to them, etc. — Wordsworth cared but little for books; 
nature was his great teacher. Nature filled him with feelings of deep tran- 
quillity and delight, and taught him something of the significance of this " un- 
intelligible world." 

65. There is life and food, etc. — The beautiful landscape would not 
fade from his memory. Both its forms and its teachings would continue to 
abide with him as a blessing. 

67. F?-om what I -was, etc. — On his first visit, he had not yet learned 
the meaning of nature. Its forms and scenes filled him with a wild delight, 
as is beautifully described in the following lines, but they brought him no 
lesson of wisdom. 

89. For I haz'c learned, etc, — Here we find the soul of Wordsworth's 
poetry. Nature and humanity are in fundamental harmony. An invisible 
presence pervades all things, both animate and inanimate. His highest aim 
is to live in sympathy with that di\-ine presence, and to make it — 



NOTES TO INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 5/1 

•• The nurse, 
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 
Of all my moral being." 

115. For thou ail, etc. — His sister Dorothy. Her sympathy with nature 
was scarcely less than that of the poet himself. See sketch of Wordsworth. 

126. Fo}- she can so infonn, etc. — The poet realized in his own character 
what he here describes. Calmness of soul, loftiness of thought, and — 

'• Our cheerful faith, that all -which we behold 
Is full of blessings," — 

these are traits that make Wordsworth's life so beautiful. 

138. And in after-years, etc. — The poet expects that his sister will pass 
through the same experience as himself; that her wild ecstasies in the pres- 
ence of nature will be sobered by reflection and intelligent sympathy with the 
soul of things. 



NOTES TO INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 

( The 7ncmbers refer to titles. ) 

In addition to what has been said in the sketch of Wordsworth, the fol- 
lowing account given by him of the poem will form a valuable introduction. 
He says: " This was composed during my residence at Town-End, Grasmere. 
Two year at least passed between the writing of the first four stanzas and 
the remaining part. To the attentive and competent reader the whole suffi- 
ciently explains itself, but there may be no harm in adverting here to partic- 
ular feelings or experiences of my own mind on which the structure of the 
poem partly rests. Nothing was more difficult for me in childhood than to 
admit the notion of death as a state applicable to my own being. I have 
elsewhere said, — 

" A simple child 

That lightly draws its breath 

And feels its life in every limb, 

\\'hat should it know of death ? " 

But it was not so much from the source of animal vivacity that my diffi- 
culty came, as from a sense of the indomitableness of the spirit within me. I 
used to brood over the stories of Enoch and Elijah, and almost persuade 
myself that, whatever might become of others, I should be translated in 
something of the same way to heaven. With a feeling congenial to this, I 
was often unable to think of external things as having external existence, and 



572 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

I communed with all that I saw as something not apart from, but inherent in, 
my own immaterial nature. Many times, while going to school, have I grasped 
at a wall or tree to recall myself from this abyss of idealism to the reality. 
At that time I was afraid of mere processes. In later periods of life I have 
deplored, as we have all reason to do, a subjugation of an opposite character, 
and have rejoiced over the remembrances, as is expressed in the lines "Obsti- 
nate Questionings," etc. To that dream-like vividness and splendor which 
invests objects of sight in childhood, everj^ one, I believe, if he would look 
back, could bear testimony, and I need not dwell upon it here; but having 
in the poem regarded this as a presumptive evidence of a prior state of ex- 
istence, I think it right to protest against the conclusion which has given pain 
to some good and pious persons that I meant to inculcate such a belief. It is 
far too shado%vy a notion to be recommended to faith as more than an element 
in our instincts of immortality. But let us bear in mind that though the idea 
is not advanced in Revelation, there is nothing there to contradict it, and the 
fall of man presents an analog}^ in its favor. Accordingly, a pre-existent 
state has entered into the creed of many nations, and among all persons 
acquainted with classic literature is known as an ingredient in Platonic 
philosophy. . Archimedes said that he could move the w-orld if he had a point 
whereon to rest his machine. Who has not felt the same aspirations as re- 
gards his own mind? Having to wield some of its elements when I was 
impelled to wTite this poem on the immortality of the soul, I took hold of 
the notion of pre-e5dstence as ha\^ng sufficient foundation in humanity for 
authorizing me to make for my purpose the best use of it I could as a poet." 

6. Of yore = the childhood days of the poet. The usual sense is of old 
time. 

9. The things, etc. — Compare with this Shelley's "A Lament : " — 

" O World ! O life ! O time ! 

On whose last steps I climb. 
Trembling at that where I had stood before, — 
When will return the glory of your prime .'' 

No more — oh never more ! 

Out of the day and night 

A joy has taken flight ; 
Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar. 
Move my faint heart with grief, — but with delight 

No more — oh never more." 

21. Tabor = a small drum. 

25. The cataracts^ etc. — The poet had in mind the numerous cascades 
Qf the beautiful Lake District. 



NOTES TO INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 573 

28. Fields of sleep. — The time is morning, and the quiet of night has 
not yet been broken by the noises of the day. 

37. Ye blessed creatures = the objects of nature, animate and inanimate, 
mentioned in the preceding stanza. 

39. Jubilee = joyfulness, exultation. From the Hebrew yobel, a blast 
of a trumpet, a shout of joy, through the Lat. and Fr. 

41. Coronal = wreath or garland as worn at Roman and Grecian 
banquets. 

55. Pansy = a species of violet. From Fr. pensee, a thought; " thus, 
it is the flower of thought or remembrance." 

57. Visionary = vision-like. 

59. Our birth, etc. — In this stanza the poet explains the source of that 
glory which invests objects in childhood. He adopts for the time the 
Platonic doctrine of the pre-existence of the soul, and makes the glory of 
nature as seen in childhood a reflection of the splendor of our previous state 
of existence. As we grow older objects are apt I0 become commonplace. 
Compare the lines of Hood : — 

" I remember, I remember, 

The fir-trees dark and high ; 
I used to think their slender tops 

Were close against the sky. 
It was a childish ignorance ; 

But now it's little joy 
To know I'm farther off from heaven 

Than when I was a boy." 

An interval of more than two years came between the writing of the 
fourth and the fifth stanza. The transition seems a little abrupt. 

73. A^atztre'' s priest = one living in close fellowship with nature, discern- 
ing its beauty and understanding its secrets. 

82. Ho7nely mirse =-\ki\% world; called homely in comparison with 
" that imperial palace," whence her foster-child has come. 

Compare the following lines from Pope's " Essay on Man; " — 

" Behold the child, by Nature's kindly law, 
Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw ; 
Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight, 
A little louder, but as empty quite : 
Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his riper stage, 
And beads and prayer-books are the toys of age : 
Pleased with this bauble still, as that before, 
Till tired he sleeps, and life's poor play is o'er." 



574 EXGLISU LITERATURE. 

86. Behold the child, etc. — Wordsworth had in mind a particular child, 
Hartley Coleridge, but the language is applicable to childhood in general. 

^'] . Pigmy = a very diminutive person. From Gr. pugiiie, the distance 
from the elbow to the knuckles, through the Lat. and Fr. Originally applied 
to a fabulous race of dwarfs. 

89. 7vv//^c/ = vexed, annoyed. 

103. Co}is = to study over, examine into. From A. S., cuunian, to test, 
examine. 

104. Humorous stage = the stage on which the whims, follies, and 
caprices of mankind are exhibited. 

105. Persons = dramatis persona:, characters. 

III. Best philosopher, h&c?i\xst of his spontaneous love, joy, trust. See 
sketch of \Yordsworth. 

128. Custom =the ordinar}^ usage and requirements of practical life. 

144. Fallings from us, vanishings, etc, — Refer to the shadowy remem- 
brances of a previous life — remembrances that startle us at times with a 
consciousness of our immortality, and lead our thoughts to higher things 
than the material world about us. See Wordsworth's note above. 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 575 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 

For half a century Alfred Tennyson stood at the head 
of English poetry. It is hardly too much to claim that he was 
the best representative of the culture of the Victorian age. 
His extraordinary poetic genius was supported by broad schol- 
arship. He absorbed the deepest and best thought of his age ; 
and instead of mere passing fancies, his poetry embodies a 
depth of thought and feeling that gives it inexhaustible rich- 
ness. Viewed from an artistic standpoint, his work is exquisite. 
He surpassed Pope in perfection of form ; he equalled Words- 
worth in natural expression ; he excelled both Scott and Byron 
in romantic narrative ; and he wrote the only great epic poem 
since the days of Milton. 

Few poets have been more fortunate than Tennyson. His 
life was one of easy competence. In the retirement of a culti- 
vated home, and in a narrow circle of congenial friends, he 
steadily pursued his vocation. Never did a poet consecrate 
himself more entirely to his art. He wrote no prose. He did 
not entangle himself in business, which has fettered many a 
brilliant genius. He encumbered himself with no public office, 
by which his poetic labors might have been broken. His 
career, like an English river, quietly flowed on among fertile 
hills and blooming meadows. Perhaps it might have been 
better had he lived a little less in retirement. Contact with the 
rude world might have given a more rugged strength to his 
verse, relieving in some measure the excessive refinement that 
is possibly its greatest fault. 

The principal events in the life of Tennyson are the publi- 
cation of his successive volumes. He was born at Somersby 
in Lincolnshire in 1809, the son of a clergyman, and the third 



576 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

of twelve children. It was a gifted family, which Leigh Hunt 
called " a nest of nightingales." After a careful training in 
the parsonage under his father, Alfred was sent, with two 
brothers, to Trinity College, Cambridge. The bent of his 
mind early showed itself ; and in 1827, in connection with his 
brother Charles, he sent forth, as yet an undergraduate, a 
volume entitled " Poems, by Two Brothers." As in the case 
of Byron, this first volume gave no token of genius. The 
poetry was correct, but unreadably dull. 

In 1829, in competition with Arthur Hallam, Tennyson won 
a medal for his prize poem on the subject of " Timbuctoo." 
This work contained some faint intimations of his latent 
powers. His literary career really opened in 1830 with a 
volume of "Poems, Chiefly Lyrical." With much that was 
faulty and immature — suppressed by the author in subse- 
quent editions of his works — this volume announced the 
presence of a genuine poet. He did not, however, receive 
the recognition he deserved. Christopher North, in Black- 
wood's Magazine, mingled censure and praise — his censure 
being of the positive kind then in vogue. The poet resented 
the criticism ; and in a volume published a little later, we find 
the following reply : — 

" You did late review my lays, 

Crusty Christopher; 
You did mingle blame and praise, 

Rusty Christopher; 
When I learnt from whom it came, 
I forgave you all the blame, 

Musty Christopher; 
I could iioi forgive the praise, 

Fusty Christopher." 

Among the pleasing lyrics in this volume are "Lilian," " Rec- 
ollections of the Arabian Nights," and especially " Mariana." 

" The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, 

The clock slow ticking, and the sound 
Which to the wooing wind aloof 
The poplar made, did all confound 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 57/ 

Her sense; but most she loathed the hour 

When the thick-moted sunbeam lay 

Athwart the chambers, and the day 
Was sloping toward his western bower. 

Then said she, " I am very dreary, 

He will not come," she said; 
She wept, " I am aweary, aweary, 

O God, that I were dead ! " 

At this period the poet's muse was very active. In 1832 
appeared another voknne, which exhibited more fully his poetic 
gifts, and made a notable contribution to English verse. He 
easily took his place at the head of the younger race of singers. 
His lyrical power, his mastery of musical rhythm, his charm of 
felicitous expression, and his exquisite handling of form and 
color, are everywhere apparent. His breadth of sympathy is 
shown by his successful treatment of ancient, mediaeval, and 
modern themes. The " May Queen," with its tender pathos, 
at once touched the popular heart. In " Lady Clara Vere de 
Vere," the nobility of character is presented in proud contrast 
with the nobility of birth : — 

" Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 
'Tis only noble to be good. 
Kind hearts are more than coronets, 

And simple faith than Norman blood." 

In " The Lotus-Eaters," how exquisitely the sound is wedded 
to the sense : — 

" In the afternoon they came unto a land. 
In which it always seemed afternoon. 
All round the coast the languid air did swoon. 
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. 
Full-faced above the valley stood the moon; 
And like a downward smoke, the slender stream 
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem." 

Among the other pieces deserving mention in this volume 
are "The Lady of Shalott," " CEnone," "The Miller's Daugh- 
ter," "The Palace of Art," and "A Dream of Fair Women." 



578 ENGLISH LITERATURE.- 

For ten years Tennyson published nothing except a few 
pieces in periodicals. Perhaps he had been discouraged by 
the want of appreciation on the part of professional critics. 
But he was by no means driven from his art. This intervening 
period was devoted to serious study. He enlarged his intel- 
lectual range, and perfected himself in artistic expression. He 
ripened into maturity. 

In 1842 appeared a new volume, in which are found many 
of his choicest pieces. He was no longer simply a master of 
lyrical harmony ; he had become also a thinker and teacher. 
Here appears his first work in connection with the legend of 
Arthur and the Round Table. Milton and Dryden had both 
thought of the Arthurian cycle as the subject of an epic poem. 
It was reserved for Tennyson to realize the idea ; and so well 
has he done his work, that we may congratulate ourselves that 
the older poets left the field unoccupied. Listen to the forceful 
beginning of the " Morte d'Arthur : " — 

" So all day long the noise of battle rolled 
Among the mountains by the winter sea." 

Where can we find a more graphic touch than the descrip- 
tion of the flinging of Arthur's sword ? — 

" The great brand 
Made lightnings in the splejidor of the moon. 
And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch, 
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, 
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock 
By night, with noises of the northern sea." 

Here is a picture from "The Gardener's Daughter: " — 

" For up the porch there grew an Eastern rose. 
That flowering high, the last night's gale had caught, 
And blown across the walk. One arm aloft — 
Gown'd in pure white that fitted to the shape — 
Holding the bush, to fix it back, she stood. 
A single stream of all her soft, brown hair 
Pour'd on one side: the shadow of the flowers 



ALFRED TEiVNVSON. 579 

Stole all the golden gloss, and, wavering 

Lovingly lower, trembled on her waist — 

Ah, happy shade — and still went wavering down, 

But, ere it touched a foot that might have danced 

The greensward into greener circles, dipt. 

And mixed with shadows of the common ground ! 

But the full day dwelt on her brows, and sunn'd 

Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe bloom. 

And doubled his warmth against her lips. 

And on the bounteous wave of such a breast 

As never pencil drew. Half light, "half shade. 

She stood, a sight to make an old man young." 

" Dora '■ has the charm of a Hebrew idyl — a poem that 
can hardly be read without tears. " Locksley Hall," a story of 
disappointed love, is known to all, and many of its lines have 
passed into daily use : — 

"In the spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove; 
In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. 



Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs, 

And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns." 

" Godiva " is a story of heroic self-sacrifice with many an 
exquisite passage. As the heroine returned to the palace, — 

" All at once, 
With twelve great shocks of sound, the shameless noon 
Was clash 'd and hammer 'd from a hundred towers." 

Ahnost every poem deserves particular mention, " Edward 
Gray " and " Lady Clare " are delightful ballads in the old 
style. " Ulysses " is a strong treatment of a classic theme. In 
" The Two Voices," " St. Simeon Stylites," and " The Vision 
of Sin," the poet enters the domain of theology. The little 
song called " Farewell " gives expression to a feeling of sad- 
ness that has arisen in every sensitive bosom. 

" Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, 
Thy tribute wave deliver; 
No more by thee my steps shall be, 
Forever and forever." 



SSO ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

The burdening sense of loss on the death of a loved one 
never had stronger expression than in the little poem begin- 
ning, " Break, break, break : " — 

"And the stately ships go on 
To their haven under the hill; 
But oh, for the touch of a vanish'd hand, 
And the sound of a voice that is still." 

In 1847 appeared "The Princess." The author called it 
" A Medley ; " and such it is, composed of mediaeval and mod- 
ern elements. Half jest, and half earnest, it yet reaches a. 
serious solution of the vexed problem of woman's education : — 

"For woman is not undeveloped man, 
But diverse; could we make her as the man, 
Sweet love were slain : his dearest bond is this. 
Not like to like, but like in difference. 
Yet in the long years must they liker grow; 
The man be more of woman, she of man; 
He gain in sweetness and in moral height, 
Nor lose the wrestling thews that throw the world; 
She mental breadth, nor fail in childward care. 
Nor lose the childlike in the larger mind; 
Till at the last she set herself to man, 
Like perfect music unto noble words." 

The romantic story is delightfully told ; and the songs in- 
terspersed among the several parts are, perhaps, the finest in 
our language. Where can we match the " Bugle Song ? " 

"The splendor falls on castle walls 
And snowy summits old in story: 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying." 

In 1850 appeared " In Memoriam," the best elegiac poem 
ever written, and one that will perhaps never have a rival. It 
is written in memory of Arthur Hallam, a bosom friend of 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 58 1 

Tennyson's, and a young man of rich gifts of mind and heart. 
x\ bright career seemed open to him ; but while travelling in 
Germany for his health, he suddenly died at Vienna, in 1833. 
The poet's heart was wrung with grief ; and under the weight 
of bereavement, he set himself resolutely to a consideration of 
the great mysteries of life, death, God, providence, eternal life. 
He does not deal with these subjects like a theologian or phi- 
losopher ; but rising above the plane of the understanding, he 
finds his answers in the cravings of the heart and the intuitions 
of the spirit. 

No other poem is so filled with the thought and feeling 
peculiar to our age. It rejects the seductive materialism of 
recent scientific thought ; it is larger and less dogmatic than 
our creeds. With reverent heart the poet finds comfort at last 
in the " strong Son of God : " — 

"Thou wilt not leave us in the dust: 

Thou madest man, he knows not why; 
He thinks he was not made to die; 
And thou hast made him: thou art just. 

Thou seemest human and divine, 

The highest, hoHest manhood, thou: 
Our wills are ours, we know not how; 

Our wills are ours, to make them thine. 

Our little systems have their day; 

They have their day and cease to be : 

They are but broken lights of thee. 
And thou, O Lord, art more than they. 

We have but faith: we cannot know; 

For knowledge is of things we see; 

And yet we trust it comes from thee, 
A beam in darkness: let it grow." 

But no single quotation is sufficient to illustrate the depth 
and richness and beauty of this w^onderful production. 

The jear in which " In Memoriam " appeared, Tennyson 
succeeded Wordsworth as poet laureate. The greater part of 



582 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

his busy life he spent in retirement on the Isle of Wight, and 
more recently at Petersfield in Hampshire. He was greatly 
beloved by the circle of friends he admitted into his intimacy ; 
but the greater portion of his time was spent among his books 
and flowers. In 1855 appeared "Maud, and Other Poems." 
The principal poem in this volume has much divided critical 
opinion, but it is safe to say that it falls below his usual high 
achievement. The meaning of the poem, as explained by the 
poet himself, is the reclaiming power of love: "It is the story 
of a man who has a morbid nature, with a touch of inherited 
insanity, and very selfish. The poem is to show what love does 
for him. The war is only an episode. You must remember 
that it is not I myself speaking. It is this man with the strain 
of madness in his blood, and the memory of a great trouble 
and wrong that has put him out with the world." -^ 

" The Brook " is a charming idyl, containing a delicious, rip- 
pling inter-lyric : 

" I come from haunts of coot and hern, 
I make a sudden sally, 
-And sparkle out among the fern, 
To bicker down a valley." 

Whatever doubts touching the poet's genius may have been 
started by "Maud," they were forever cleared away in 1859 by 
the appearance of the "Idyls of the King." These poems were 
received with enthusiasm. Consisting at first of only four — 
Enid, Vivien, Elaine, and Guinevere — the poet afterwards 
wrought in the same field, until his ten idyls constitute a great 
epic poem. " Nave and transept, aisle after aisle," to use the 
language of Stedman, " the Gothic minster has extended, until, 
with the addition of a cloister here and a chapel yonder, the 
structure stands complete." These " Idyls " embody the 
highest poetic achievement of Tennyson's genius, and belong 
to the mountain . summits of song. Brave knights, lovely 
women, mediaeval splendor, undying devotion, and heart-break- 
ing tragedies, are all portrayed with the richest poetic art 
1 Century Magazine, February, 1893. 



ALFRED TEA'ArvsOJV. 583 

and feeling. Unlike the " Iliad " or '' Paradise Lost," which 
appeal to us largely through their grandeur, the " Idyls of the 
King " possess a deep human interest. They arouse our sym- 
pathies. We weep for Elaine, "the lily maid of Astolat," the 
victim of a hopeless love for Lancelot. How worthy of his 
praise ! 

" Fair she was, my King, 
Pure, as you ever wish your knights to be. 
To doubt her fairness were to want an eye, 
To doubt her pureness were to want a heart — 
Yea, to be loved, if what is worthy love 
Could bind him, but free love will not be bound." 

The agonies of Arthur and Guinevere at Almesbury go to 
the heart : — 

" Lo ! I forgive thee, as Eternal God 
Forgives; do thou for thine own soul the rest. 
But how to take last leave of all I loved? 

golden hair, with which I used to play, 
Not knowing ! O imperial-moulded form, 
And beauty such as never woman wore, 
Until it came a kingdom's curse with thee. 

1 can not touch thy lips, they are not mine. 

But Lancelot's: nay, they never were the King's. • 



My love thro' flesh hath wrought into my life 
So far, that my doom is, I love thee still. 
Let no, man dream but that I love thee still. 
Perchance, and so thou purify thy soul. 
And so thou lean on our fair father Christ, 
Hereafter in that world where all are pure. 
We two may meet before high God, and thou 
Wilt spring to me, and claim me thine, and know 
I am thine husband — not a smaller soul. 
Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave me that, 
I charge thee, my last hope." 

How beautiful the words of Arthur, as he seeks in his last 
moments to comfort the lonely and grief-stricken Sir Bedi- 
vere : — ■ 



584 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

"The old order changeth, yielding place to new, 
And God fulfils himself in many ways, 
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. 
Comfort thyself : what comfort is in me ? 
I have lived my life, and that which I have done 
May he within himself make pure ! but thou. 
If thou shouldst never see my face again. 
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer 
Than this world dreams of. . . . 

I am going a long way 
"With these thou seest — if indeed I go 
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) — 
To the island valley of Avilion ; 
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 
Nor ever wand blows loudly; but it lies 
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns 
And bowery hollows crown" d with summer sea." 

In 1864 appeared " Enoch Arden," a work of great beauty. 
It depicts with deep pathos the heroism to be found in humble 
life. Beauty, pathos, heroism — these are qualities that give it 
high rank, and have made it perhaps the most popular of all 
Tennyson's writings. Human nature is portrayed at its best ; 
and hke all our author's poetry, " Enoch Arden " unconsciouslv 
begets faith in man, and makes us hopeful of the future of our 
race. 

Of Tennyson's other works we cannot speak. It is enough 
to say that they add nothing to his fame. 

The quiet beauty of his death formed a fitting close to his 
long and uneventful career. On the evening of the 6th of 
October, 1892, the soul of the great poet passed away. The 
prayer he had breathed two years before in the little poem 
"Crossing the Bar," was answered: 

" Sunset and evening star, 

And one clear call for me ! 
And may there be no moaning of the bar 
^Vhen I put out to sea. 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep. 

Too full for sound and foam, 
When that which drew from out the boundless deep 

Turns again home. 



ALFRED TEiYNYSON. 585 

Twilight and evening bell, 

And after that the dark ! 
And may there be no sadness of farewell 

When I embark. 

For tho' from out our bourn of Time and Place 

The flood may bear me far, 
I hope to see my Pilot face to face 

When I have crossed the bar." 

He was entombed by the side of Chaucer in Westminster 
Abbey, while two continents were lamenting his death. 

Whatever clianges of taste or fashion may hereafter come 
in poetry, surely we are justified in believing that Tennyson 
will continue to hold a high rank. There is nothing in his 
character to detract from his reputation as a poet. Though 
we know comparatively little of his life, we clearly read his 
character in his works. He commands our confidence and 
reverent regard. Without exhibiting heroic traits, for which 
there was no special occasion, he appears to us as a man of 
exquisite and healthful culture. While tenderly sensitive to 
all that is beautiful in nature and humanity, he possessed 
profound ethical feeling and spiritual insight. Keenly sympa- 
thetic with the eager and restless search after truth character- 
istic of our time, he avoided its dangers, and continued a strong 
and trustworthy teacher, inspiring confidence in man, hope in 
the future, and faith in God. 



586 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



ELAINE. 

Elaine the fair, Elaine the lovable, 

Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat, 

High in her chamber up a tower to the east 

Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot ; 

Which first she placed where morning's earliest ray 

Might strike it, and awake her with the gleam ; 

Then, fearing rust or soilure, fashioned for it 

A case of silk, and braided thereupon 

All the devices blazoned on the shield 

In their own tinct, and added, of her wit, lo 

A border fantasy of branch and flower. 

And yellow-throated nestling in the nest. 

Nor rested thus content, but day by day, 

Leaving her household and good father, climbed 

That eastern tower, and, entering, barrd her door, 

Stript off the case, and read the naked shield, 

Now guess'd a hidden meaning in his arms. 

Now made a pretty history to herself 

Of every dint a sword had beaten in it, 

And every scratch a lance had made upon it, 20 

Conjecturing when and where : this cut is fresh ; 

That ten years back ; this dealt him at Ceerlyle ; 

That at Cccrleon ; this at Camelot : 

And ah, God's mercy, what a stroke was there ! 

And here a thrust that might have kilPd, but God 

Broke the strong lance, and rolFd his enemy down, 

And saved him : so she lived in fantasy. 

How came the lily maid by that good shield 
Of Lancelot, she that knew not ev'n his name? 
He left it with her when he rode to tilt 3° 

For the great diamond in the diamond jousts 
Which Arthur had ordain'd, and by that name 
Had named them, since a diamond was the prize. 

For Arthur, long before they crown'd him king. 
Roving the trackless realms of Lvonnesse, 



ELAINE. 587 

Had found a glen, gray boulder, and black tarn. 

A horror lived about the tarn, and clave 

Like its own mists to all the mountain side : 

For here two brothers, one a king, had met. 

And fought together; but their names were lost. 4° 

And each had slain his brother at a blow. 

And down they fell and made the glen abhorr'd : 

And there they lay till all their bones were bleach'd, 

And lichen'd into color with the crags : 

And he that once was king had on a crown 

Of diamonds, one in front, and four aside. 

And Arthur came, and laboring up the pass 

All in a misty moonshine, unawares 

Had trodden that crown'd skeleton, and the skull 

Brake from the nape, and from the skull the crown 50 

Roird into light, and, turning on its rims. 

Fled like a glittering rivulet to the tarn : 

And down the shingly scaur he plunged, and caught. 

And set it on his head, and in his heart 

Heard murmurs, " Lo, thou likewise shalt be king." 

Thereafter, when a king, he had the gems 
Pluck'd from the crown, and showM them to his knights, 
Saying, " These jewels, whereupon I chanced 
Divinely, are the kingdom's, not the king's — 
For public use : henceforward let there be, 60 

Once every year, a joust for one of these : 
For so by nine years' proof we needs must learn 
Which is our mightiest, and ourselves shall grow 
In use of arms and manhood, till we drive 
The heathen, who, some say, shall rule the land 
Hereafter, which God hinder." Thus he spoke : 
And eight years past, eight jousts had been, and still 
Had Lancelot won the diamond of the year, 
With purpose to present them to the Queen 
When all were won ; but, meaning all at once 7° 

To snare her royal fancy with a boon 
Worth half her realm, had never spoken word. 

Now for the central diamond and the last 
And largest, Arthur, holding then his court 



588 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Hard on the river nigh the place which now 

Is this world's hugest, let proclaim a joust 

At Camelot, and when the time drew nigh 

Spake (for she had been sick) to Guinevere, 

" Are you so sick, my Queen, you cannot move 

To these fair jousts?" " Yea, lord," she said, " ye know it.*' So 

" Then will ye miss," he answer d, " the great deeds 

Of Lancelot, and his prowess in the lists, 

A sight ye love to look on." And the Queen 

Lifted her eyes, and they dwelt languidly 

On Lancelot, where he stood beside the King. 

He, thinking that he read her meaning there, 

" Stay with me, I am sick ; my love is more 

Than many diamonds," yielded ; and a heart, 

Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen 

(However much he yearnM to make complete 9° 

The tale of diamonds for his destined boon), 

Urged him to speak against the truth, and say, 

" Sir King, mine ancient wound is hardly whole, 

And lets me from the saddle ; " and the King 

Glanced first at him, then her, and went his way. 

No sooner gone than suddenly she began : 

" To blame, my lord Sir Lancelot, much to blame ! 
Why go ye not to these fair jousts? the knights 
Are half of them our enemies, and the crowd 
Will murmur, ' Lo, the shameless ones, who take loo 

Their pastime now the trustful king is gone ! " " 
Then Lancelot, vexed at having lied in vain : 
" Are ye so wise? ye were not once so wise. 
My Queen, that summer, when ye loved me first. 
Then of the crowd ye took no more account 
Than of the myriad cricket of the mead, 
When its own voice clings to each blade of grass, 
And every voice is nothing. As to knights, 
Them surely can I silence wdth all ease. 

But now my loyal worship is allow'd "o 

Of all men: many a bard, without offence, 
Has link'd our names together in his lay, 
Lancelot, the flower of bravery, Guinevere, 



ELAINE. 589 

The pear] of beauty : and our knights at feast 
Have pledged us in this union, while the king 
Would listen smiling. How then? is there more? 
Has Arthur spoken aught? or would yourself, 
Now weary of my service and devoir, 
Henceforth be truer to your faultless lord?'' 

She broke into a little scornful laugh. 120 

"Arthur, my lord, Arthur, the faultless King, 
That passionate perfection, my good lord — 
But who can gaze upon the sun in heaven? 
He never spake word of reproach to me. 
He never had a glimpse of mine untruth, 
He cares not for me : only here to-day 
There gleam'd a vague suspicion in his eyes : 
Some meddling rogue has tampered with him — else 
Rapt in this fancy of his Table Round, 

And swearing men to vows impossible, 130 

To make them like himself: but, friend, to me 
He is all fault who hath no fault at all : 
For who loves me must have a touch of earth ; 
The low sun makes the color : I am yours, 
Not Arthur's, as ye know, save by the bond. 
And therefore hear my words : go to the jousts : 
The tiny-trumpeting gnat can break our dream 
When sweetest ; and the vermin voices here 
May buzz so loud — we scorn them, but they sting." 

Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief of knights : 140 

" And with what face, after my pretext made. 
Shall I appear, O Queen, at Camelot, I 
Before a King who honors his own word. 
As if it were his God's ? " 

"Yea." said the Queen, 
" A moral child without the craft to rule, 
Else had he not lost me : but listen to me. 
If I must find you wit : we hear it said 
That men go down before your spear at a touch 
But knowing you are Lancelot ; your great name, 
This conquers : hide it. therefore ; go unknown : 15° 



590 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Win ! by this kiss you will : and our true King 

Will then allow your pretext, O my knight, 

As all for glory ; for, to speak him true, 

Ye know right well, how meek soever he seem. 

No keener hunter after glory breathes. 

He loves it in his knights more than himself: 

They prove to him his work : win and return." 

Then got Sir Lancelot suddenly to horse, 
Wroth at himself: not willing to be known, 
He left the barren-beaten thoroughfare, 160 

Chose the green path that show'd the rarer foot, 
And there among the solitary downs. 
Full often lost in fancy, lost his way ; 
Till, as he traced a faintly-shadowM track. 
That all in loops and links among the dales 
Ran to the Castle of Astolat, he saw 
Fired from the west, far on a hill, the towers. 
Thither he made, and wound the gateway horn. 
Then came an old, dumb, myriad-wrinkled man. 
Who let him into lodging, and disarmed. 170 

And Lancelot marvelPd at the wordless man ; 
And, issuing, found the Lord of Astolat 
With two strong sons. Sir Torre and Sir Lavaine, 
Moving to meet him in the castle court ; 
And close behind them stept the lily maid, 
Elaine, his daughter : mother of the house 
There was not : some light jest among them rose 
With laughter dying down as the great knight 
Approached them : then the lord of Astolat : 
" Whence comest thou, my guest, and by what name 180 

Livest between the lips? for, by thy state 
And presence, I might guess thee chief of those, 
After the King, who eat in Arthur's halls. 
Him have I seen : the rest, his Table Round, 
Known as they are, to me they are unknown." 

Then answered Lancelot, the chief of knights : 
" Known am I, and of Arthur's hall, and known 
What I by mere mischance have brought, my shield. 
But, since I go to joust, as one unknown, 



ELAINE. 591 

At Camelot for the diamond, ask me not. 190 

Hereafter you shall know me — and the shield — 
I pray you lend me one, if such you have, 
Blank, or at least with some device not mine.'" 

Then said the Lord of Astolat, '' Here is Torre's : 
Hurt in his first tilt was my son, Sir Torre, 
And so, God wot, his shield is blank enough. 
His ye can have." Then added plain Sir Torre, 
" Yea, since I cannot use it, ye may have it." 
Here laugh'd the father saying, " Fie, Sir Churl, 
Is that an answer for a noble knight? 200 

Allow him : but Lavaine, my younger here. 
He is so full of lustihood, he will ride. 
Joust for it, and win, and bring it in an hour. 
And set it in this damsel's golden hair. 
To make her thrice as wilful as before.'' 

" Nay, father, nay, good father, shame me not 
Before this noble knight," said young Lavaine, 
" For nothing. Surely I but play'd on Torre : 
He seem'd so sullen, vext he could not go : 
A jest, no more : for, knight, the maiden dreamt 210 

That some one put this diamond in her hand. 
And that it was too slippery to be held, 
And slipt, and fell into some pool or stream, 
The castle-well, belike : and then I said 
That if\ went, and if\ fought and won it 
(But all was jest and joke among ourselves). 
Then must she keep it safelier. All was jest. 
But, father, give me leave, an if he will. 
To ride to Camelot with this noble knight : 

Win shall I not, but do my best to win : 220 

Young as I am, yet would I do my best." 

" So ye will grace me," answer d Lancelot, 
Smiling a moment, " with a fellowship 
O'er these waste downs whereon I lost myself. 
Then were I glad of you as guide and friend ; 
And you shall win this diamond — as I hear, 
It is a fair large diamond — if ye may ; 



592 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

And yield it to this maiden, if ye will.'" 

" A fair, large diamond,'"' added plain Sir Torre, 

" Such be for queens and not for simple maids." 230 

Then she, who held her eyes upon the ground, 

Elaine, and heard her name so tost about, 

Flushed slightly at the slight disparagement 

Before the stranger knight, who, looking at her 

Full courtly, yet not falsely, thus returned : 

" If what is fair be but for what is fair. 

And only queens are to be counted so, 

Rash were my judgment, then, who deem this maid 

Might wear as fair a jewel as is on earth, 

Not violating the bond of like to like." 240 

He spoke and ceased : the lily maid Elaine, 
Won by the mellow voice before she look"d. 
Lifted her eyes, and read his lineaments. 
The great and guilty love he bare the Queen, 
In battle with the love he bare his lord. 
Had miarrd his face, and mark'd it ere his time. 
Another sinning on such heights with one, 
The flower of all the west and all the world. 
Had been the sleeker for it : but in him 

His mood was often like a fiend, and rose 250 

And drove him into wastes and solitudes 
For agony, who was yet a living soul. 
Marr'd as he was, he seem'd the goodliest man 
That ever among ladies ate in hall, 
And noblest, when she lifted up her eyes. 
However marr'd, of more than twice her years, 
Seam'd with an ancient swordcut on the cheek. 
And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up her eyes 
And loved him, with that love which was her doom. 

Then the great knight, the darling of the court, 260 

Loved of the loveliest, into that rude hall 
Stept with all grace, and not with half-disdain 
Hid under grace, as in a smaller time. 
But kindly man moving among his kind : 
Whom they with meats and vintage of their best, 
And talk and minstrel melody entertained. 



ELAINE. 593 

And much they ask'd of court and Table Round, 

And ever well and readily answered he : 

But Lancelot, when they glanced at Guinevere, 

Suddenly speaking of the wordless man 270 

Heard from the baron that, ten years before, 

The heathen caught, and reft him of his tongue. 

" He learnt and warn'd me of their fierce design 

Against my house, and him they caught and maini'd ; 

But I, my sons, and little daughter fled 

From bonds or death, and dwelt among the woods 

By the great river in a boatman's hut. 

Dull days were those, till our good Arthur broke 

The Pagan yet once more on Badon hill." 

" Oh, there, great Lord, doubtless,'- Lavaine said, rapt 280 
By all the sweet and sudden passion of youth 
Toward greatness in its elder, " you have fought. 
Oh, tell us — for we live apart — you know 
Of Arthur's glorious wars.'" And Lancelot spoke 
And answer'd him at full, as having been 
With Arthur in the fight which all day long 
Rang by the white mouth of the violent Glem ; 
And in the four wild battles by the shore 
Of Duglas ; that on Bassa ; then the war 

That thunder'd in and out the gloomy skirts 290 

Of Celidon the forest ; and again 
By castle Gurnion, w^here the glorious King 
Had on his cuirass worn our Lady's Head, 
Carved on one emerald, centr'd in a sun 
Of silver rays, that lighten'd as he breathed ; 
And at Caerleon had he help'd his lord, 
When the strong neighings of the wild White Horse 
Set every gilded parapet shuddering ; 
And up in Agned-Cathregonion too, 

And down the waste sand-shores of Trath Treroit, 3°° 

Where many a heathen fell ; " And on the mount 
Of Badon I myself beheld the King 
Charge at the head of all his Table Round, 
And all his legions crying Christ and him, 
And break them ; and I saw him, after, stand 



594 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

High on a heap of slain, from spur to plume 

Red as the rising sun with heathen blood. 

And, seeing me, with a great voice he cried, 

' They are broken, they are broken," for the King, 

However mild he seems at home, nor cares 310 

For triumph in our mimic wars, the jousts — 

For, if his own knight cast him down, he laughs, 

Saying his knights are better men than he — 

Yet in this heathen war the fire of God 

Fills him : I never saw his like : there lives 

No greater leader." 

While he utter'd this, 
Low to her own heart said the lily maid, 
" Save your great self, fair lord : " and, when he fell 
From talk of war to traits of pleasantry, — 

Being mirthful he but in a stately kind, — 320 

She still took note that w-hen the living smile 
Died from his lips, across him came a cloud 
Of melancholy severe, from which again. 
Whenever, in her hovering to and fro. 
The lily maid had striven to make him cheer, 
There brake a sudden-beaming tenderness 
Of manners and of nature : and she thought 
That all was nature, all, perchance, for her. 
And all that night long his face before her lived. 
As when a painter, poring on a face, 33° 

Divinely thro' all hindrance finds the man 
Behind it, and so paints him that his face. 
The shape and color of a mind and life, 
Lives for his children, ever at its best 
And fullest ; so the face before her lived, 
Dark-splendid, speaking in the silence, full 
Of noble things, and held her from her sleep. 
Till rathe she rose, half-cheated in the thought 
She needs must bid farewell to sweet Lavaine. 
First as in fear, step after step, she stole 34° 

Down the long tower-stairs, hesitating: 
Anon, she heard Sir Lancelot cry in the court, 
" This shield, my friend, where is it?'' and Lavaine 



ELAINE. 595 

Past inward, as she came from out the tower. 

There to his proud horse Lancelot turn'd, and smoothed 

The glossy shoulder, humming to himself. 

Half-envious of the flattering hand, she drew 

Nearer and stood. He look'd, and more amazed 

Than if seven men had set upon him, saw 

The maiden standing in the dewy light. 350 

He had not dreamed she was so beautiful. 

Then came on him a sort of sacred fear, 

For silent, tho' he greeted her, she stood 

Rapt on his face as if it were a God's. 

Suddenlv flashed on her a wild desire 

That he should wear her favor at the tilt. 

She braved a riotous heart in asking for it. 

'• Fair lord, whose name I know not — noble it is, 

I well believe, the noblest — will you wear 

iMy favor at this tourney? " " Nay,"' said he, 360 

" Fair lady, since I never yet have worn 

Favor of any lady in the lists. 

Such is my wont, as those who know me know." 

" Yea, so,'' she answered ; " then in wearing mine 

Needs must be lesser likelihood, noble lord, 

That those who know should know you." And he turn'd 

Her counsel up and down within his mind, 

And found it true, and answer'd, " True, my child. 

Well, I will wear it : fetch it out to me : 

What is it? " and she told him, "A red sleeve 370 

Broider'd with pearls," and brought it : then he bound 

Her token on his helmet, with a smile 

Saying, '• I never yet have done so much 

For any maiden living," and the blood 

Sprang to her face and fill'd her with delight ; 

But left her all the paler, when Lavaine, 

Returning, brought the yet-unblazon'd shield, 

His brothers ; which he gave to Lancelot, 

Who parted with his own to fair Elaine ; 

" Do me this grace, my child, to have my shield 380 

In keeping till I come." "A grace to me," 

She answer'd, " twice to-day. I am your Squire." 

Whereat Lavaine said, laughing, " Lily maid, 



596 EXGLJSH LITERA TURE. 

For fear our people call you lily maid 

In earnest, let me bring your color back : 

Once, twice, and thrice : now get you hence to bed : " 

So kiss'd her, and Sir Lancelot his hand. 

And thus they moved away : she stay'd a minute. 

Then made a sudden step to the gate, and there — 

Her bright hair blown about the serious face 39° 

Yet rosy-kindled with her brother's kiss — 

Paused in the gateway, standing by the shield 

In silence, while she watch"d their arms far-off 

Sparkle, until they dipt below the downs. 

Then to her tower she climb'd, ai:^ took the shield 

There kept.it. and so lived in fantasy. 

^Meanwhile the two companions past away 
Far o"er the long backs of the bushless downs, 
To where Sir Lancelot knew there lived a knight 
Not far from Camelot. now for forty years 400 

A hermit, w^ho had pray"d, labor'd, and pray"d, 
And, ever laboring, had scoop'd himself. 
In the white rock, a chapel and a hall 
On massive columns, like a shorecliff cave. 
And cells and chambers : all were fair and dry; 
The green light from the meadows underneath 
Struck up and lived along the milky roofs ; 
And in the meadows tremulous aspen-trees 
And poplars made a noise of falling showers. 
And. thither wending, there that night they bode. 41° 

But when the next day broke from underground, 
And shot red hre and shadows thro' the cave. 
They rose, heard mass, broke fast, and rode away: 
Then Lancelot, saving. " Hear, but hold my name 
Hidden, you ride with Lancelot of the Lake." 
Abash'd Lavaine. whose instant reverence. 
Dearer to true young hearts than their own praise, 
But left him leave to stammer, " Is it indeed?*' 
And after muttering, " The great Lancelot,*" 
At last he got his breath and answer'd. " One, 420 

One have I seen — that otlier. our liege lord. 
The dread Pendragon. Britain*s King of kings, 



ELAINE. 597 

Of whom the people talk mysteriously, 

He will be there — then, were I stricken blind 

That minute, I might say that I had seen." 

So spake Lavaine, and, when they reached the lists 
By Camelot in the meadow, let his eyes 
Run thro' the peopled gallery, which half round 
Lay like a rainbow falPn upon the grass, 

Until they found the clear-faced King, who sat 43° 

Robed in red samite, easily to be known. 
Since to his crown the golden dragon clung. 
And down his robe the dragon writhed in gold, 
And from the carve.n-work behind him crept 
Two dragons gilded, sloping down to make 
Arms for his chair, while all the rest of them 
Thro' knots and loops and folds innumerable 
Fled ever thro' the woodwork, till they found 
The new design wherein they lost themselves. 
Yet with all ease, so tender was the work : 440 

And, in the costly canopy o'er him set, 
Blazed the last diamond of the nameless king. 
Then Lancelot answer'd young Lavame and said, 
" Me you call great : mine is the firmer seat, 
The truer lance : but there is many a youth, 
Now crescent, Avho will come to all I am 
And overcome it ; and in me there dwells 
No greatness, save it be some far-off touch 
Of greatness to know well I am not great : 

There is the man." And Lavaine gaped upon him 450 

As on a thing miraculous, and anon 
The trumpets blew ; and then did either side, 
They that assail'd, and they that held the lists. 
Set lance in rest, strike spur, suddenly move. 
Meet in the midst, and there so furiously 
Shock, that a man far-off might well perceive. 
If any man that day were left afield, 
The hard earth shake, and a low thunder of arms. 
And Lancelot bode a little, till he saw 

Which were the weaker ; then he hurl'd into it 460 

Against the stronger : little need to speak 



59^ EXGLISH LITERATURE. 

Of Lancelot in his glory I King, duke, earl, 
Count, baron — whom he smote he overthrew. 

But in the field were Lancelot's kith and kin, 
Ranged with the Table Round that held the hsts, 
Strong^ men, and wrathful that a strangrer knio^ht 
Should do and almost overdo the deeds 
Of Lancelot : and one said to the other, •' Lo ! 
What is he? I do not mean the force alone — 
The grace and versatility of the man. 47° 

Is it not Lancelot?"' •' When has Lancelot worn 
Favor of any lady in the lists ? 
Not such his wont, as we, who know him, know." 
" How then? who then? '" a fury seized them all, 
A fiery family passion for the name 
Of Lancelot, and a glory one with theirs. 
They couch"d their spears and prick'd their steeds and 

thus, 
Their plumes driv"n backward by the wind they made 
In moving, all together down upon him 

Bare, as a wild wave in the wide North-sea, 480 

Green-glimmering toward the summit, bears, with all 
Its stormy crests that smoke against the skies, 
Down on a bark, and overbears the bark, 
And him that helms it, so they overbore 
Sir Lancelot and his charger, and a spear, 
Down-glancing, lamed the charger, and a spear, 
Prick'd sharply his own cuirass, and the head 
Pierced thro' his side and there snapt and remain'd. 

Then Sir Lavaine did well and worshipfully ; 
He bore a knight of old repute to the earth. 490 

And brought his horse to Lancelot where he lay. 
He up the side, sweating with agony, got. 
But thought to do while he might yet endure. 
And, being lustily holpen by the rest. 
His party. — tho" it seemed half-miracle 
To those he fought with — drave his kith and kin. 
And all the Table Round that held the lists. 
Back to the barrier ; then the trumpets blew 
Proclaiming his the prize wdio wore the sleeve 



ELAINE. 599 

Of scarlet, and the pearls ; and all the knights, 5°o 

His party, cried, " Advance, and take thy prize, 

The diamond ; '* but he answer d, " Diamond me 

No diamonds ! for God's love, a little air ! 

Prize me no prizes, for my prize is death ! 

Hence will I. and, 1 charge you, follow me not." 

He spoke, and vanish'd suddenly from the field 
With young Lavaine into the poplar grove. 
There from his charger down he slid, and sat 
Gasping to Sir Lavaine, " Draw the lance-head : " 
" Ah, my sweet lord Sir Lancelot,"' said Lavaine, 51° 

" I dread me, if I draw it, ye shall die.'' 
But he, " I die already with it: draw — 
Draw," — and Lavaine drew, and that other gave 
A marvellous great shriek and ghastly groan. 
And half his blood burst forth, and down he sank 
For the pure pain, and wholly swoon'd away. 
Then came the hermit out and bare him in, 
There stanch'd his wound ; and there, in daily doubt 
Whether to live or die, for many a week, 

Hid from the wide world's rumor by the grove 520 

Of poplars, with their noise of falling showers, 
And ever-tremulous aspen-trees, he lay. 

But on that day when Lancelot fled the lists, 
His party, knights of utmost North and West, 
Lords of waste marches, kings of desolate isles, 
Came round their great Pendragon, saying to him, 
*' Lo, Sire, our knight thro' whom we won the day 
Hath gone sore wounded, and hath left his prize 
Untaken, crying that his prize is death.'' 

" Heaven hinder," said the King, " that such an one, 53° 

So great a knight as we have seen to-day — 
He seemed to me another Lancelot, 
Yea, twenty times I thought him Lancelot — 
He must not pass uncared for. Wherefore, rise, 

Gawain. and ride forth and find the knight. 
Wounded and wearied, needs must he be near. 

1 charge you that you get at once to horse. 

And, knights and kings, there breathes not one of you 



6oo EKGi:::: lterature. 

Will deem this prl^e ^i ^^rs is rashly given : 

His prowess was too wondrous. We wDl do him 540 

No costomaiy honor: since the krig::: 

Came not to us, of us to claim the :r^ze. 

Omselves will send it after. Rise :: .- :2kt 

This diamond and deliver it and r^: ::. 

And bring us where he is and h»; /t i- ts. 

And cease not from your quest ci. -^ -" d.' 

So saying, from the can-e" f. : " er : : i.e. 
To which it made a restless .r. : :. 1-t : ; ; k. 
And gave, the diamond: ttei. r t he sat. 

At Arthur's right, with smil : _ i\ ; r : : : 5 r . 55° 

With 5-\h:"^ hir ^r.i fr:-z ii^^ ':.t:,:r.. a Prince 

In ihr -ii "::,h: :-::.-i t.\ ^.i:. :: h:; May, 

Gawain. 5 : :. "::. r ; 7 . ~ Z ::- : : - . i.iir and strong. 

And after h;.:;:T;::. 7r_^:;-.^:\;. ::.;: .;e"3^T?t. 

AndG^rrh-. :. _::■-:::.:-, : .;: .Z^zJf -.si 

Sir Modrrh- ':r::^;er. :: 1 :r:.::;- ^;:\:5e. 

Nor oftc:i -i '?Z. :: h:= " ii'i, :.::i :\;-:v 

Wroth ihiT :\\z h;::^ . :;-:;;:.:;:: -; f^h;- ::r:h 

In qnes: :: '^^':.:z:. '.-.t ^:"e~- " :: :-.\i:.T :.:: \ .tive 

The :2.nquet, and concourse of k:::^:::5 and kings. 560 

^ : lU in wrath be got to horje ^-t ; 

he -.rtbur to the banquet, dz.:'/. i. 

h:i;:. h : h: :\^. ■ Is it Lancelot vh ; ^ ::zie. 
Despiie mc ^voond lie spake of, s.h :::■ ^im 
Of glory, and has added wound : : :. i . 

And ridd'n away to die ? '' So iei:' e :. e Ki::^ . 
And, after two days' tarriance there re? rr. :! 
Then, when he saw the Queen, err :: ^ . ask'd, 
** Love, are you yet so sick ? " ■ h .1 . . l_^rd,^ she said. 
" And where is Lancelot ? ' ' Then the Queen, amazed, 57° 

" Was he not with you? won he not your prize? " 
** Nay, but one like him." '* Why that like was he." 
And when the King demanded how she knew. 
Said, ** Lord, no sooner had ye parted from us. 
Than Lancelot told me of a common talk 
That men went down before his spear at a touch 
But knowing he was Lancelot ; his great name 



ELAINE. 60 1 

Conquer'd : and therefore would he hide his name 

From all men, ev'n the King, and to this end 

Had made the pretext of a hindering wound 580 

That he might joust unknown of all, and learn 

If his old prowess were in aught decayM : 

And added, ' Our true Arthur, when he learns, 

Will well allow my pretext, as for gain of purer glory/ " 

Then replied the King, 
" Far lovelier in our Lancelot had it been. 
In lieu of idly dallying with the truth, 
To have trusted me as he hath trusted you. 
Surely his King and most familiar friend 

Might well have kept his secret. True, indeed, 59° 

Albeit I know my knights fantastical, 
So fine a fear in our large Lancelot 
Must needs have moved my laughter : now remains 
But little cause for laughter : his own kin — 
111 news, my Queen, for all who love him, this ! — 
His kith and kin, not knowing, set upon him ; 
So that he went sore wounded from the field : 
Yet good news too : for goodly hopes are min 
That Lancelot is no more a lonely heart. 

He wore, against his wont, upon his helm 600 

A sleeve of scarlet, broider'd with great pearls. 
Some gentle maiden's gift." 

" Yea, lord,'' she said, 
" Your hopes are mine," and, saying that, she choked. 
And sharply turn'd about to hide her face, 
Past to her chamber, and there flung herself 
Down on the great King's couch, and writhed upon it. 
And clench'd her fingers till they bit the palm, 
And shriek'd out " Traitor '' to the unhearing wall, 
Then flash'd into wild tears, and rose again, 
And moved about her palace, proud and pale. 610 

Gawain the while thro' all the region round 
Rode with his diamond, wearied of the quest, 
Touch'd at all points, except the poplar grove. 
And came at last, the" late, to Astolat. 



602 ENGLISH LirEKATUKE. 

Whom, glittering in enamerd arms, the maid 

Glanced at, and cried, " What news from Camelot, lord? 

What of the knight with the red sleeve? " " He won." 

" I knew it," she said. " But parted from the jousts 

Hurt in the side," whereat she caught her breath ; 

Thro' her own side she felt the sharp lance go ; 620 

Thereon she smote her hand : Avell-nigh she swoon'd ; 

And, while he gazed wonderingly at her, came 

The lord of Astolat out, to whom the Prince 

Reported who he was, and on what quest 

Sent, that he bore the prize and could not find 

The victor, but had ridden wildly round 

To seek him, and was wearied of the search. 

To whom the lord of Astolat, " Bide with us, 

And ride no longer wildly, noble Prince ! 

Here was the knight, and here he left a shield ; 630 

This will he send or come for : furthermore 

Our son is with him : we shall hear anon, 

Needs must we hear." To this the courteous Prince 

Accorded with his wonted courtesy, — 

Courtesy with a touch of traitor in it. 

And stay'd'; and cast his eyes on fair Elaine : 

Where could be found face daintier? then her shape — 

From forehead down to foot, perfect — again 

From foot to forehead exquisitely turn'd : 

" Well — if I bide, lo ! this wild flower for me ! " 640 

And oft they met among the garden yews, 

And there he set himself to play upon her 

With sallying wit, free flashes from a height 

Above her, graces of the court, and songs, 

Sighs, and slow smiles, and golden eloquence, 

And amorous adulation, till the maid 

Rebeird against it, saying to him, " Prince, 

O loyal nephew of our noble King, 

W^hy ask you not to see the shield he left. 

Whence you might learn his name? Why slight your King, 650 

And lose the quest he sent you on, and prove 

No surer than our falcon yesterday. 

Who lost the hern we slipt him at, and went 

To all the winds? " " Nay, by mine head," said he, 



ELAINE. 603 

" I lose it, as we lose the lark in heaven, 

damsel, in the light of your blue eyes : 
But, an ye will it, let me see the shield."' 

And when the shield was brought, and Gawain saw 

Sir Lancelot's azure lions, crown'd with gold, 

Ramp in the field, he smote his thigh, and mock'd ; 660 

" Right was the King ! our Lancelot ! that true man ! " 

"And right was I,"' she answerd merrily, " I, 

Who dream'd my knight the greatest knight of all/'' 

"And if /dream'd," said Gawain, " that you love 

This greatest knight, your pardon ! lo, you know it ! 

Speak therefore : shall I waste myself in vain ? " 

Full simple was her answer, "What know I? 

My brethren have been all my fellowship, 

And I, when often they have talk'd of love, 

Wish'd it had been my mother, for they talk'd, 670 

Meseem'd, of what they knew not; so myself — 

1 know not if I know what true love is, 
But, if I know, then, if I love not him, 
Methinks there is none other 1 can love." 

" Yea, by God's death," said he, " ye love him well, 

But would not, knew ye what all others know, 

And whom he loves." "So be it," cried Elaine, 

And lifted her fair face and moved away : 

But he pursued her, calling, " Stay a little ! 

One golden minute's grace : he wore your sleeve : 680 

Would he break faith with one I may not name.'' 

Must our true man change like a leaf at last? 

Nay — like enough : why then, far be it from me 

To cross our mighty Lancelot in his loves ! 

And, damsel, for I deem you know full well 

Where your great knight is hidden, let me leave 

My quest with you ; the diamond also : here ! 

For, if you love, it will be sweet to give it ; 

And, if he loves, it will be sweet to have it 

From your own hand : and, whether he love or not, 690 

A diamond is a diamond. Fare you well 

A thousand times ! — a thousand times farewell ! 

Yet, if he love, and his love hold, we two 

May meet at court hereafter : there, I think, 



604 EXGLIS-H LITERATURE. 

So you wiE learn the courtesies of the court. 
We two shall know each other." 

Then he gave, 
And slightly kissed the hand to which he gave. 
The diamond, and, all wearied of the quest. 
Leapt on his horse, and, caroUing. as he went, 
A true-love ballad. li'grhtlv rode away. izz 

Thence : ; : j.r ; : urt he past : there told the King 
What the King knew, '' Sir Lancelot is the knight." 
And added, " Sire, my liege, so much I learnt ; 
But foiled to find him tho' I rode aU round 
The region : but I lighted on the maid 
Whose sleeve he wore ; she loves him : and to her. 
Deeming our courtesy is the truest law, 
I gave the diamond : she will render it ; 
For, by mine head, she knows his hiding-place." 

The seldom-frowning King frown'd, and replied, rio 

" Too courteous truly \ ye shall go no more 
On quest of mine, seeing that ye forget 
Obedience is the courtesy due to kings." 

He spake and parted. Wroth, but ail in awe, 
F:r " ri-t strokes of the blood, without a word, 
1 i.^t :: - -i: ::her, staring after him ; 
7' r: / :": -is air. strode off, and buzz'd abroad 
;^ : : ::!;r r; : f -ilat and her love. 
.-11 rir; t- 1 : : : : ? : once, all tongues were loosed : 
• T T ;?^ ■ :f .^: 7^; rs Sir Lancelot, -: 

Sir Lancelo: 7- t^ -It maid of Astolat." 
Some read thr 11 i.r ; face, some the Queens, and all 
Had marvel ' : t - U'tbe; but most 

Predoom'd ht ze old dame 

Came sudden- t , t^n : --r sharp news. 

She, that hac earn : :e ncise :; :: zefore. 
But sorrowing Lancelot should have stoop'd so low. 
Marr'd her friend's point with pale tranquiUit}-. 
So ran the tale, like fire about the court. 

Fire in dry stubble a nine days* wonder flared : /30 

TiU ev n the knights at banquet twice or thrice 



ELAINE. 605 

Forgot to drink to Lancelot and the Queen ; 
And, pledging Lancelot and the lily maid, 
Smiled at each other, while the Queen, who sat 
With lips severely placid, felt the knot 
Climb in her throat, and with her feet unseen 
Crushed the wild passion out against the floor 
Beneath the banquet, where the meats became 
As wormwood, and she hated all who pledged. 

But far away the maid in Astolat, 74° 

Her guiltless rival, she that ever kept 
The one-day-seen Sir Lancelot in her heart, 
Crept to her father, while he mused alone. 
Sat on his knee, stroked his gray face and said, 
" Father, you call me wilful, and the fault 
Is yours who let me have my will, and now. 
Sweet father, will you let me lose my wits ? '^ 
" Nay," said he, " surely ! " " Wherefore, let me hence," 
She answer'd, " and find out our dear Lavaine." 
" Ye will not lose your wits for dear Lavaine ; 75° 

Bide," answered he : "we needs must hear anon 
Of him and of that other." " Ay," she said, 
" And of that other, for I needs must hence 
And find that other, wheresoever he be, 
And with mine own hand give his diamond to him, 
Lest I be found as faithless in the quest 
As yon proud Prince who left the quest to me. 
Sweet father, I behold him in my dreams 
Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself. 

Death-pale, for lack of gentle maiden's aid. 760 

The gentler-born the maiden, the more bound, 
My father, to be sweet and serviceable 
To noble knights in sickness, as ye know. 
When these have worn their tokens ; let me hence 
I pray you." Then her father, nodding, said, 
" Ay, ay, the diamond : wit you well, my child. 
Right fain were I to learn this knight were whole, 
Being our greatest ; yea, and you must give it — 
And sure I think this fruit is hung too high 
For any mouth to gape for save a Queen's — 11° 



6o6 EXGLISH LITERATURE. 

Nay, I mean nothing : so then, get you gone, 
Being so \^\\ wilful \ou must go." 

Liglitly, her suit allow'd, she shpt away; 
And, while she made her ready for her ride,. 
Her father"s latest word humm"d in her ear, 
" Being so very wilful you must go,"' 
And changed itself, and echoed in her heart, 
" Being so very wilful you must die." 
But she was happy enough, and shook it off 
As we shake off the bee that buzzes at us ; 780 

And in her heart she answer'd it and said, 
" What matter, so I help him back to life?" 
Then far away, with good Sir Torre for guide. 
Rode o'er the long backs of the bushless dowuis 
To Camelot, and, before the city-gates. 
Came on her brother with a happy face 
Making a roan horse caper and curvet 
For pleasure all about a held of flowers : 
Whom when she saw. •• Lavaine." she cried, " Lavaine, 
How fares my lord Sir Lancelot?" He, amazed, 79° 

•' Torre and Elaine! Avhy here? Sir Lancelot! 
How know ye my lord's name is Lancelot?'' 
But when the maid had told him all her tale. 
Then turn'd Sir Torre, and, being in his moods. 
Left them, and under the strange-statued gate, 
Where Arthur's wars were render'd mystically, 
Past up the still, rich city to his kin. 
His own far blood, which dwelt at Camelot; 
And her, Lavaine across the poplar grove 

Led to the caves : there first she saw the casque 800 

Of Lancelot on the wall : her scarlet sleeve. 
Tho' carved and cut, and half the pearls away, 
Stream'd from it still : and in her heart she laugh'd. 
Because he had not loosed it from his helm. 
But meant once more, perchance, to tourney in it. 
And, when they gain'd the cell in which he slept. 
His battle-writhen arms and mighty hands 
Lav naked on the wolfskin, and a dream 



ELAINE. 607 

Then she that saw him lying unsleek, unshorn, 810 

Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself, 

Uttered a little, tender, dolorous cry. 

The sound, not wonted in a place so still. 

Woke the sick knight ; and, while he roll'd his eyes 

Yet blank from sleep, she started to him, saying, 

'• Your prize, the diamond sent you by the King : " 

His eyes glistened : she fancied, " Is it for me?" 

And, when the maid had told him all the tale 

Of King and Prince, the diamond sent, the quest 

Assigned to her not worthy of it, she knelt 820 

Full lowly by the corners of his bed. 

And laid the diamond in his open hand. 

Her face was near, and, as we kiss the child 

That does the task assign'd, he kiss'd her face. 

At once she slipt like water to the floor. 

" Alas," he said, '* your ride has wearied you. 

Rest must you have." " No rest for me," she said ; 

" Nay, for near you, fair lord, I am at rest." 

What might she mean by that? his large, black eyes, 

Yet larger thro^ his leanness, dwelt upon her, 830 

Till all her heart's sad secret blazed itself 

In the heart's colors on her simple face ; 

And Lancelot look'd, and was perplext in mind, 

And, being weak in body, said no more ; 

But did not love the color ; woman's love, 

Save one, he not regarded, and so turn'd. 

Sighing, and feign'd a sleep until he slept. 

Then rose Elaine and glided thro' the fields, 
And past beneath the weirdly-sculptured gates 
Far up the dim, rich city to her kin ; 840 

There bode the night : but woke with dawn, and pas 
Down thro' the dim, rich city to the fields. 
Thence to the cave : so day by day she past 
In either twilight, ghost-like to and fro 
Gliding, and every day she tended him, 
And likewise many a night : and Lancelot 
Would, tho' he call'd his wound a little hurt 
Whereof he should be quickly whole, at times 



6o8 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Brain-feverous in his heat and agony, seem 

Uncourteous, even he : but the meek maid 850 

Sweetly forebore him ever, being to him 

Meeker than any child to a rough nurse, 

Milder than any mother to a sick child, 

And never woman yet, since man's first fall. 

Did kindlier unto man, but her deep love 

Upbore her ; till the hermit, skill'd in all 

The simples and the science of that time, 

Told him that her fine care had saved his life. 

And the sick man forgot her simple blush, 

Would call her friend and sister, sweet Elaine, 860 

Would listen for her coming, and regret 

Her parting step, and held her tenderly, 

And loved her with all love except the love 

Of man and woman when the}- love their best. 

Closest, and sw^eetest, and had died the death 

In any knightly fashion for her sake. 

And, peradventure. had he seen her first. 

She might have made this and that other world 

Another world for the sick man ; but now 

The shackles of an old love straiten'd him, S70 

His honor rooted in dishonor stood. 

And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true. 

Yet the great knight in his mid-sickness made 
Full many a holy vow and pure resolve. 
These, as but born of sickness, could not live : 
For, when the blood ran lustier in him again. 
Full often the sw^eet image of one face. 
Making a treacherous quiet in his heart, 
Dispersed his resolution like a cloud. 

Then, if the maiden, while that ghostly grace 8S0 

Beam'd on his fancy, spoke, he answered not. 
Or short and coldly, and she knew right well 
What the rough sickness meant, but what this meant 
She knew not, and the sorrow dimmed her sight. 
And drave her ere her time across the fields 
Far into the rich city, where alone 
She murmur'd, "Vain, in vain: it cannot be, 



ELAINE. 609 

He will not love me: how then? must I die?" 

Then as a little, helpless, innocent bird. 

That has but one plain passage of few notes, 890 

Will sing the simple passage o'er and o'er 

For all an April morning, till the ear 

Wearies to hear it, so the simple maid 

Went half the night, repeating, " Must I die?" 

And now to right she turned, and now to left, 

And found no ease in turning or in rest ; 

And " Him or death " she mutter'd, " Death or him,'' 

Again and like a burthen, " Him or death." 

But when Sir Lancelot's deadly hurt was whole. 
To Astolat returning rode the three. 9°° 

There, morn by morn, arraying her sweet self 
In that wherein she deem'd she look'd her best. 
She came before Sir Lancelot, for she thought, 
'• If I be loved, these are my festal robes ; 
If not, the victim's flowers before he fall." 
And Lancelot ever prest upon the maid 
That she should ask some goodly gift of him 
For her own self or hers ; " And do not shun 
To speak the wish most dear to your true heart ; 
Such service have ye done me that I make 91° 

My will of yours, and Prince and Lord am I 
In mine own land, and what I will I can." 
Then like a ghost she lifted up her face. 
But like a ghost without the power to speak. 
And Lancelot saw that she withheld her wish, 
x-\nd bode among them yet a little space 
Till he should learn it : and one morn it chanced 
He found her in among the garden yews. 
And said, "Delay no longer, speak your wish. 
Seeing I must go to-day : " then out she brake, 920 

" Going? and we shall never see you more. 
And I must die for want of one bold word."' 
" Speak : that I live to hear,"' he said, " is yours." 
Then suddenly and passionately she spoke : 
" I have gone mad. I love you : let me die." 
"Ah, sister," answer'd Lancelot, " what is this?" 



6lO EXGLISH LITERATURE. 

And, innocently extending her white arms, 

" Your love,"' she said, " your love — to be your wife." 

And Lancelot answer'd, " Had I chos'n to wed, 

I had been wedded earlier, sweet Elaine : 930 

But now there never will be wife of mine." 

" No, no," she cried, " I care not to be wife. 

But to be with you still, to see your face, 

To serve you, and to follow you thro" the world.'' 

And Lancelot answer'd, " Nay, the world, the world, 

All ear and eye, with such a stupid heart 

To interpret ear and eye, and such a tongue 

To blare its own interpretation — nay, 

Full ill then should I quit your brother's love. 

And your good father's kindness." And she said, 94° 

•' Not to be with you, not to see your face — 

Alas for me, then, my good days are done.'' 

" Nay, noble maid," he answer'd, " ten times nay ! 

This is not love : but love's first flash in youth, 

jMost common: yea I know it of mine own self: 

And you yourself will smile at your own self 

Hereafter, when you yield your flower of life 

To one more fitly yours, not thrice your age : 

And then will I, for true you are and sweet 

Beyond mine old beUef in womanhood, 950 

]\Iore specially, should your good knight be poor, 

Endow you with broad land and territory, 

Even to the half my realm beyond the seas, 

So that would make you happy : furthermore, 

Ev'n to the death, as tho' 3'e were my blood. 

In all your quarrels will I be your knight. 

This will I do, dear damsel, for your sake. 

And more than this I cannot.'' 

While he spoke 
She neither blush'd nor shook, but deathly-pale 
Stood grasping what was nearest, then replied, 960 

" Of all this will I nothing : " and so fell. 
And thus they bore her swooning to her tower. 

Then spake, to whom thro' those black walls of yew 
Their talk had pierced, her father. " Ay, a flash, 



ELAINE. 6ll 

I fear me, that will strike my blossom dead. 
Too courteous are you, fair Lord Lancelot. 
I pray you, use some rough discourtesy 
To blunt or break her passion.^' 

Lancelot said, 
" That were against me : what I can I will ; '' 
And there that day remained, and toward even 97° 

Sent for his shield : full meekly rose the maid, 
Stript off the case, and gave the naked shield ; 
Then, when she heard his horse upon the stones, 
Unclaspi^ig, flung the casement back, and look'd 
Down on his helm, from which her sleeve had gone. 
And Lancelot knew the little clinking sound ; 
And she by tact of love was well aware 
That Lancelot knew that she was looking at him. 
And yet he glanced not up, nor waved his hand, 
Nor bade farewell, but sadly rode away. 9^° 

This was the one discourtesy that he used. 

So in her tower alone the maiden sat : 
His very shield was gone ; only the case. 
Her own poor work, her empty labor, left. 
But still she heard him, still his picture form'd 
And grew between her and the pictured wall. 
Then came her father, saying in low tones, 
" Have comfort," whom she greeted quietly. 
Then came her brethren, saying, " Peace to thee, 
Sweet sister,'' whom she answered with all calm. 990 

But, when they left her to herself again. 
Death, like a friend's voice from a distant field 
Approaching thro' the darkness, calPd : the owls' 
Wailing had power upon her, and she mixt 
Her fancies with the sallow-rifted glooms 
Of evening, and the moanings of the wind. 

And in those days she made a little song. 
And calPd her song " The song of Love and Death." 
And sang it : sweetly could she make and sing. 

" Sweet is true love tho' given in vain, in vain ; 1000 

And sweet is death, who puts an end to pain; 
I know not which is sweeter, no, not L 



6 1 2 ENGL IS-H LITER A TURE. 

" Love, art thou sweet? then bitter death must be : 
Love, thou art bitter ; sweet is death to me. 

Love, if death be sweeter, let me die. 

" Sweet love, that seems not made to fade away, 
Sweet death, that seems to make us loveless clay, 

1 know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 

" I fain would follow love, if that could be ; 
I needs must follow death, who calls for me ; loto 

Call and 1 follow, I follow! let me die." 

High with the last line scaled her voice ; and this. 
All in a fiery dawning wild with wind, 
That shook her tower, the brothers heard, and thought 
With shuddering, " Hark the Phantom of the house 
That ever shrieks before a death," and call'd 
The father, and all three in hurry and fear 
Ran to her, and lo ! the blood -red light of dawn 
Flared on her face, she shrilling, " Let me die ! " 

As when we dwell upon a word we know, 1020 

Repeating, till the word we know so well 
Becomes a wonder and we know not why. 
So dwelt the father on her face and thought, 
" Is this Elaine? " till back the maiden fell. 
Then gave a languid hand to each, and lay, 
Speaking a still good-morrow with her eyes. 
At last she said, " Sweet brothers, yester night 
I seem'd a curious, little maid again, 
As happy as when we dwelt among the woods. 
And when ye used to take me with the flood 1030 

Up the great river in the boatman's boat. 
Only, ye would not pass beyond the cape 
That has the poplar on it : there ye fixt 
Your limit, oft returning with the tide. 
And yet I cried because ye would not pass 
Beyond it, and far up the shining flood 
Until we found the palace of the king. 
And yet ye would not ; but this night I dream'd 
That I was all alone upon the flood, 



ELAINE. 613 

And then I said, ' Now shall I have my will : ' 1040 

And there I woke, but still the wish remained. 

So let me hence that I may pass at last 

Beyond the poplar and far up the flood, 

Until I find the palace of the king. 

There will I enter in among them all, 

And no man there will dare to mock at me ; 

But there the fine Gawain will wonder at me, 

And there the great Sir Lancelot muse at me ; 

Gawain, who bade a thousand farewells to me, 

Lancelot, who coldly went nor bade me one : 1050 

And there the King will know me and my love, 

And there the Queen herself will pity me, 

And all the gentle court will welcome me, 

And after my long voyage I shall rest ! "" 

" Peace," said her father, " O my child, ye seem 
Light-headed, for what force is yours to go 
So far, being sick? and wherefore would ye look 
On this proud fellow again, who scorns us all?" 

Then the rough Torre began to heave and move. 
And bluster into stormy sobs, and say, 1060 

" I never loved him : an I meet with him, 
I care not howsoever great he be, 
Then will I strike at him and strike him down. 
Give me good fortune, I will strike him dead. 
For this discomfort he hath done the house." 

To which the gentle sister made reply, 
" Fret not yourself, dear brother, nor be wroth. 
Seeing it is no more Sir Lancelot's fault 
Not to love me, than it is mine to love 

Him of all men who seems to me the highest." 1070 

" Highest?" the father answer'd, echoing " highest? " 
(He meant to break the passion in her) " nay, 
Daughter. I know not what you call the highest ; 
But this I know, for all the people know it. 
He loves the Queen, and in an open shame : 
And she returns his love in open shame. 
If this be hio;h. what is it to be low?" 



6 14 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Then spake the lily maid of Astolat, 
" Sweet father, all too faint and sick am I 

For anger : these are slanders : never yet 1080 

Was noble man but made ignoble talk. 
He makes no friend who never made a foe. 
But now it is my glory to have loved 
One peerless, without stain : so let me pass, 
My father, howsoe'er I seem to you, 
Not all unhappy, having loved God's best 
And greatest, tho' my love had no return : 
Yet, seeing ye desire your child to live. 
Thanks, but ye work against your own desire ; 
For, if I could believe the things ye say, 1090 

I should but die the sooner ; wherefore cease. 
Sweet father, and bid call the ghostly man 
Hither, and let me shrive me clean, and die.*' 

So when the ghostly man had come and gone, 
She, with a face bright as for sin forgiven, 
Besought Lavaine to write, as she devised, 
A letter, word for word ; and, when he ask'd, 
"Is it for Lancelot, is it for my dear lord? 
Then will I bear it gladly ; " she replied, 

" For Lancelot and the Queen and all the world, noo 

But I myself must bear it.'' Then he wrote 
The letter she devised ; which, being writ 
And folded, '• O sweet father, tender and true. 
Deny me not," she said — "ye never yet 
Denied my fancies — this, however strange. 
My latest : lay the letter in my hand 
A little ere I die, and close the hand 
Upon it ; I shall guard it even in death. 
And when the heat is gone from out my heart. 
Then take the little bed on which I died mo 

For Lancelot's love, and deck it like the Queen's 
For richness, and me also like the Queen 
In all I have of rich, and lay me on it. 
And let there be prepared a chariot-bier 
To take me to the river, and a barge 
Be readv on the river, clothed in black. 



ELAINE. 615 

I go in state to court to meet the Queen. 

There surely I shall speak for mine own self. 

And none of you can speak for me so well. 

And therefore let our dumb, old man alone 1120 

Go with me ; he can steer and row, and he 

Will guide me to that palace, to the doors." 

She ceased : her father promised ; whereupon 
She grew so cheerful that they deem'd her death 
Was rather in the fantasy than the blood. 
But ten slow mornings past, and on the eleventh 
Her father laid the letter in her hand, 
And closed her hand upon it, and she died. 
So that day there was dole in Astolat. 

But when the next sun brake from underground, 113° 

Then, those two brethren slowly, with bent brows. 
Accompanying the sad chariot-bier, 
East like a shadow through the field, that shone 
Full-summer, to that stream whereon the barge, 
Paird all its length in blackest samite, lay. 
There sat the lifelong creature of the house. 
Loyal, the dumb old servitor, on deck, 
Winking his eyes, and twisted all his face. 
So those two brethren from the chariot took 
And on the black decks laid her in her bed, 1140 

Set in her hand a lily, o'er her hung 
The silken case with braided blazonings, 
And kiss'd her quiet brows, and saying to her, 
" Sister, farewell for ever," and again, 
" Farewell, sweet sister," parted all in tears. 
Then rose the dumb old servitor, and the dead, 
Steer'd by the dumb, went upward with the flood — 
In her right hand the lily, in her left 
The letter — all her bright hair streaming down — 
And all the coverlid was cloth of gold 1150 

Drawn to her waist, and she herself in white 
All but her face, and that clear-featured face 
Was lovely, for she did not seem as dead 
But fast asleep, and lay as though she smiled. 



6l6 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

That day Sir Lahcelot at the palace craved 
Audience of Guinevere, to give at last 
The price of half a realm, his costly gift, 
Hard-won and hardly won with bruise and blow, 
With death of others, and almost his own, — 
The nine-years-fought-for diamonds : for he saw 1160 

One of her house, and sent him to the Queen 
Bearing his wish, whereto the Queen agreed 
With such and so unmoved a majesty 
She might have seem'd her statue, but that he, 
Low-drooping till he well-nigh kiss'd her feet 
For loyal awe, saw with a sidelong eye 
The shadow of a piece of pointed lace, 
In the Queen's shadow, vibrate on the walls. 
And parted, laughing in his courtly heart. 

All in an oriel on the summer side, 11 70 

- Vine-clad, of Arthur's palace toward the stream. 
They met, and Lancelot, kneeling, utter'd, " Queen, 
Lady, my liege, in whom I have my joy. 
Take, what I had not won except for you, 
These jewels, and make me happy, making them 
An armlet fcfr the roundest arm on earth, 
Or necklace for a neck to which the swan's 
Is tawnier than her C3^gnet's : these are words : 
Your beauty is your beauty, and I sin 

In speaking, yet O grant my worship of it 1180 

Words, as we grant grief tears. Such sin in words 
Perchance we both can pardon : but, my Queen, 
I hear of rumors flying through your court. 
Our bond, as not the bond of man and wife, 
Should have in it an absoluter trust 
To make up that defect : let rumors be : 
When did not rumors fly? these, as I trust 
That you trust me in your own nobleness, 
I may not well believe that you believe," 

While thus he spoke, half turn'd away, the Queen 1190 

Brake from the vast oriel-embowering vine 
Leaf after leaf, and tore, and cast them off, 
Till all the place whereon she stood was green ; 



ELAINE. 617 

Then, when he ceased, in one cold passive hand 
Received at once and laid aside the gems 
There on a tabl'e near her, and replied : 

" It may be I am quicker of belief 
Than 30U believe me. Lancelot of the Lake, 
Our bond is not the bond of man and wife. 

This good is in it, whatsoe'er of ill, 1200 

It can be broken easier. I for you 
This many a year have done despite and wrong 
To one whom ever in my heart of hearts 
I did acknowledge nobler. What are these? 
Diamonds for me? they had been thrice their worth 
Being your gift, had you not lost your own. 
To loyal hearts the value of all gifts 
Must vary as the giver's. Not for me ! 
For her ! for your new fancy. Only this 

Grant me, I pray you : have your joys apart. 12 10 

I doubt not that, however changed, you keep 
So much of what is graceful : and myself 
Would shun to break those bounds of courtesy 
In which, as Arthurs queen, I move and rule : 
So cannot speak my mind. An end to this ! 
A strange one ! yet I take it with Amen. 
So pray you, add my diamonds to her pearls ; 
Deck her with these ; tell her she shines me down : 
An armlet for an arm to which the Queen's 
Is haggard, or a necklace for a neck 1220 

O as much fairer as a faith once fair 
Was richer than these diamonds ! hers, not mine — 
Nay, by the mother of our Lord himself. 
Or hers or mine, mine now to work my will — 
She shall not have them." 

Saying w^hich she seized, 
And, through the casement, standing wide for heat. 
Flung them, and down they flashed, and smote the stream. 
Then from the smitten surface flash'd, as it were, 
Diamonds to meet them, and they past aw^ay. 
Then, while Sir Lancelot leant, in half disgust 1230 

At love, life, all things, on the window ledge, 



6l8 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Close underneath his eyes, and right across 
Where these had fallen, slowly past the barge 
Whereon the lily maid of Astolat 
Lay smiling, like a star in blackest night. 

But the wild Queen, who saw not. burst away 
To weep and wail in secret ; and the barge, 
On to the palace-doorway sliding, paused. 
There two stood arm'd. and kept the door : to whom. 
All up the marble stair, tier over tier, 1240 

Were added mouths that gaped, and eyes that ask"d, 
" What is it?" But that oarsman's haggard face. 
As hard and still as is the face that men 
Shape to their fancy's eye from broken rocks 
On some cliflf-side, appall'd them, and they said, 
•' He is enchanted, cannot speak — and she, 
Look how she sleeps — the Fairy Queen, so fair ! 
Yea. but how pale! what are they? flesh and blood? 
Or come to take the King to fairy land ? 

For some do hold our Arthur cannot die. 1250 

But that he passes into fair}' land." 

While thus they babbled of the King, the King 
Came girt with knights : then turn'd the tongueless man 
From the half-face to the full eye, and rose 
And pointed to the damsel, and the doors. 
So Arthur bade the meek Sir Percivale 
And pure Sir Galahad to uplift the maid : 
And reverently they bore her into hall. 
Then came the flue Gawain and wonder"d at her. 
And Lancelot later came and mused at her, 1260 

And last the Queen herself and pitied her: 
But Arthur spied the letter in her hand. 
Stoopt. took, brake seal, and read it : this was all : 

" Most noble lord. Sir Lancelot of the Lake, 
I, sometime calhd the maid of Astolat. 
Come, for you left me taking no farewell. 
Hither to take my last farewell of you. 
I loved vou. and my love had no return. 
And therefore mv true love has been mv death. 



ELAIXE. 619 

And therefore to our lady Guinevere, 1270 

And to all other ladies, I make moan. 
Pray for my soul, and yield me burial. 
Pray for my soul, thou too. Sir Lancelot, 
As thou art a knight peerless."' 

Thus he read. 
And, ever in the reading, lords and dames 
Wept, looking often from his face who read 
To hers which lay so silent, and at times 
So touch'd were they, half-thinking that her lips 
Who had devised the letter moved again. 

Then freely spoke Sir Lancelot to them all ; 1280 

" My lord, liege Arthur, and all ye that hear, 
Know that for this most gentle maiden's death, 
Right heavy am I ; for good she was and true. 
But loved me with a love beyond all love 
In women, whomsoever I have known. 
Yet to be loved makes not to love again ; 
Not at my years, however it hold in youth. 
I swear by truth and knighthood that I gave 
No cause, not willingly, for such a love : 

To this I call my friends in testimony, 1290 

Her brethren, and her father, who himself 
Besought me to be plain and blunt, and use, 
To break her passion, some discourtesy 
Against my nature : what I could, I did. 
I left her, and I bade her no farewell. 
Though, had I dreamt the damsel would have died, 
I might have put my wits to some rough use, 
And help'd her from herself." 

Then said the Queen, 
(Sea was her wrath, yet working after storm) 
" Ye might at least have done her so much grace, 1300 

Fair lord, as would have help'd her from her death." 
He raised his head, their eyes met and hers fell, 
He adding, " Queen, she would not be content 
Save that I wedded her, which could not be. 
Then might she follow me through the world, she ask'd ; 



620 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

It could not be. I told her that her love 

Was but the flash of youth, would darken down 

To rise hereafter in a stiller flame 

Toward one more worthy of her. Then would I, 

More specially were he she wedded poor, 1310 

Estate them with large land and territory 

In mine own realm beyond the narrow seas, 

To keep them in all joyance ; more than this 

I could not ; this she would not, and she died." 

He pausing, Arthur answered, "O my knight, 
It will be to thy worship, as my knight, 
And mine, as head of all our Table Round, 
To see that she be buried worshipfully." 

So toward that shrine which then in all the realm 
Was richest, Arthur leading, slowly went 1320 

The marshaled order of their Table Round, 
And Lancelot sad beyond his wont to see 
The maiden buried, not as one unknown, 
Nor meanly, but with gorgeous obsequies. 
And mass, ^nd rolling music, like a queen. 
And, when the knights had laid her comely head 
Low in the dust of half-forgotten kings, 
Then Arthur spake among them, " Let her tomb 
Be costly ; and her image thereupon. 

And let the shield of Lancelot at her feet 133° 

Be carven, and her lily in her hand. 
And let the story of her dolorous voyage 
For all true hearts be blazonM on her tomb 
In letters gold and azure ! " which was wrought 
Thereafter ; but, when now the lords and dames 
And people, from the high door streaming, brake 
Disorderly, as homeward each, the Queen, 
Who mark'd Sir Lancelot where he moved apart, 
Drew near, and sighed, in passing, " Lancelot, 
Forgive me ; mine was jealousy in love." 134° 

He answer'd with his eyes upon the ground, 
" That is love's curse; pass on, my Queen, forgiven." 
But Arthur, who beheld his cloudy brows, 



ELAINE. 621 

Approach'd him, and with full affection flung 
One arm about his neck, and spake and said : 

" Lancelot, my Lancelot, thou in whom I have 
Most love and most affiance, for I know 
What thou hast been in battle by my side, 
And many a time have watched thee at the tilt 
Strike down the lusty and long-practised knight, 135° 

And let the younger and unskilled go by 
To win his honor and to make his name. 
And loved thy courtesies and thee, a man 
Made to be loved ; but now I would to God, 
For the w^ild people say wild things of thee, 
Thou couldst have loved this maiden, shaped, it seems. 
By God for thee alone, and from her face. 
If one may judge the living by the dead, 
Delicately pure and marvellously fair, 

Who might have brought thee, now a lonely man, 1360 

Wifeless and heirless, noble issue, sons 
Born to the glory of thy name and fame, 
My knight, the great Sir Lancelot of the Lake." 

Then answered Lancelot, " Fair she was, my King, 
Pure, as you ever wish your knights to be. 
To doubt her fairness were to want an eye, 
To doubt her pureness were to want a heart — 
Yea, to be loved, if what is worthy love 
Could bind him, but free love will not be bound." 

" Free love, so bound, were freest," said the King. 1370 

" Let love be free ; free love is for the best : 
And, after heaven, on our dull side of death, 
What should be best, if not so pure a love 
Clothed in so pure a loveliness ? yet thee 
She faiPd to bind, though being, as I think. 
Unbound as yet, and gentle, as I know." 

And Lancelot answered nothing, but he went. 
And, at the inrunning of a little brook, 
Sat by the river in a cove, and watch'd 

The high reed wave, and lifted up his eyes 13^° 

And saw the barge that brought her, moving down, 



622 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Far-off, a blot upon the stream, and said 

Low in liimself, " Ah ! simple heart and sweet, 

Ye loved me, damsel, surely with a love 

Far tenderer than my Queen's. Pray for thy soul ? 

Ay, that will I. Farewell too — now at last — 

Farewell, fair lily. ' Jealous}' in love?' 

Not rather dead love's harsh heir, jealous pride? 

Queen, if I grant the jealousy as of love, 

May not your crescent fear for name and fame 1390 

Speak, as it waxes, of a love that wanes? 

Why did the King dwell on my name to me? 

Mine own name shames me, seeming a reproach, 

Lancelot, whom the Lady of the Lake 

Stole from his mother — as the story runs. 

She chanted snatches of mysterious song 

Heard on the winding waters ; eve and morn 

She kiss'd me saying, ' Thou art fair, my child, 

As a king's son,' and often in her arms 

She bare me, pacing on the dusky mere. 1400 

Would she had drown'd me in it, where'er it be ! 

For what am I ? what profits me my name 

Of greatest k-night? I fought for it, and have it: 

Pleasure to have it, none ; to lose it, pain ; 

Now grown a part of me : but what use in it ? 

To make men w^orse by making my sin known? 

Or sin seem less, the sinner seeming great? 

Alas for Arthur's greatest knight, a man 

Not after Arthur's heart ! I needs must break 

These bonds that so defame me : not without 1410 

She wills it: would I, if she will'd it? nay, 

Who knows? but, if I would not, then may God, 

I pray Him, send a sudden angel down 

To seize me by the hair and bear me far, 

And fling me deep into that forgotten mere. 

Among the tumbled fragments of the hills." 

So groan'd Sir Lancelot in remorseful pain. 
Not knowing he should die a holy man. 



NOTES TO ELAINE. 623 



NOTES TO ELAINE. 

( The numbers refer to li7tes.) 

King Arthur was a Celtic hero, who fought against the early Saxon in- 
vaders. What his real character was, it is now impossible to discover. A cycle 
of legends has gathered about him, and hidden the actual facts. The Arthur- 
ian legends are widely extended. From England they crossed the Channel to 
France, and from that country passed into the literature of the leading nations 
of Europe. These legends were a favorite topic with the poets and story- 
tellers of the Middle Ages. The scenes of Arthur's exploits are laid chiefly 
in the south-western part of England. Cserleon on the Usk is given as his 
principal place of residence. He established a magnificent court, gathered 
about him the bravest knights and fairest ladies of his realm, and sought to 
regenerate the world. Twelve of the noblest knights, who enjoyed the special 
confidence of the king, and sat with him at meat, constituted the famous " order 
of the Table Round." In " Guinevere " Arthur is represented as saying: — 

" But I was first of all the kings who drew 
The knighthood errant of this realm, and all 
The realms, together under me, their head, 
In that fair order of my Table Round, 
A glorious company, the flower of men. 
To serve as model for tiie mighty world. 
And be the fair beginning of a time. 
I made them lay their hands in mine and swear 
To reverence the King, as if he were 
Their conscience, and their conscience as their King, 
To bi'eak the heathen and uphold the Christ, 
To ride abroad redressing human wrongs, 
To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it. 
To lead sweet lives in purest chastity, 
To love one maiden only, cleave to her, 
And worship her by years of noble deeds 
Until they won her ; for, indeed, I knew 
Of no more subtle master under heaven 
Than is the maiden passion for a maid, 
Not only to keep down the base in man, 
But teach high thoughts and amiable words 
And courtliness and the desire of fame 
And love of truth and all that makes a man." 



624 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

But alas for Arthur's beautiful hopes 1 Passion and sin invaded his 
court; and finally the unfaithfulness and treachery of his friends brought 
devastation and death. 

Among the knights of the Round Table, Lancelot was pre-eminent for 
deeds of prowess. He stood highest in the favor of the king. His birthplace 
and possessions were in Brittany. In his infancy he was carried away and 
fostered by Vivien, the Lady of the Lake; and from this circumstance he is 
called sometimes "Lancelot du Lac." Unfortunately, he cherished a secret 
passion for the queen. This unlioly attachment, which is referred to in 
" Elaine," and still more fully in " Guinevere," brought unspeakable sorrow, 
not only to the guilty lovers, but also to the noble and unsuspecting king. 
It was this love for the queen that steeled his heart against the touching 
devotion of Elaine. 

" Elaine " is justly regarded as one of the most beautiful " Idyls of the 
King." The stoiy is as follows : " On his way to Camelot to joust, incognito, 
for the last and greatest of the nine diamonds offered as prizes by King 
Arthur, Lancelot spends the night at Astolat, the castle of Elaine's father. 
Here unwittingly he wins Elaine's love. At the joust, whither he is accom- 
panied by Lavaine, Lancelot, wearing her sleeve of pearls on his helmet, is 
sorely wounded. Elaine learns of this, and, with her father's consent, goes 
to him and nurses him through his serious illness. Recovering, he returns 
with her and her brother to Astolat for his shield, left with her that he might 
not be recognized by it. Here she confesses to him her love. Unable to 
give his own in return, he tenderly, yet without farewell, departs. Elaine 
sickens and dies ; but not till her father has promised her that, with the letter 
she has written to Lancelot and the queen in her dead hand, she shall be 
dressed in her richest white, placed on the deck of the barge, and rowed up 
the river to the palace. This is done; and the majestic poem concludes with 
the appearance of her body at court and the burial, with a painful interview 
between the king and Lancelot, and with Lancelot's sad reflections." 
2. Lily maid, in reference to her complexion. 
4. Sacred, that is, in the eyes of Elaine. 

9. Blazoned ^^ to portray armorial bearings. From O. Fr. blazon, a 
coat of arms. 

10. 7"///<:Y = color, tinge. Lat. tingere, to stain. 

17. Arms = coat of arms. 

22. Ccrrlyle, etc. — See introduction. 

26. Him = Lancelot. 

35. Lyonnesse =^ a district in Cornwall. 

44. Z?V//^«'r/ = covered with lichen — flowerless, parasitic plants. 

46. Aside — on each side. 

53. Shingly scaur = steep rocky bank. 



NOTES TO ELAINE. 625 

62. P}-oof= trial, test. 

65. Heathen = Saxons. Arthur is represented as a Christian king. 
See introduction. 

67. ^//// = always. 

69. IVie Queen = Guinevere, between whom and himself there existed 
a guilty attachment. 

71. Boon= gift, present. From Fr. /)on, Lat. /'onus, good. 
76. World ''s hugest ^ London, on the Thames. 
91. T'rt'/i' = number. 

94. Lets — hinders. There are two lets in English; the one from A. S. 
latan, to allow; and the other from A. S. lettan, to hinder. 

104. That summer, etc. — Lancelot had been sent to conduct Guinevere 
to the court to become the wife of King Arthur. It was on this journey, 
when all their talk was on " love and sport and tilts and pleasure," that 
their attachment sprang up. 

106. Cricket, here used as a collective noun. Cf. creak. 

108. Nothing, that is, cannot be located. 

no. Allow'' d^ approved, sanctioned. 

118. Devoir =^ (S.\\\.y . 

129. Table Round. — See introduction. 

135. Bond, that is, of marriage. 

137. 6";/^/ = mosquito. 

146. Craft =^ skill. 

148. IVit = understanding, reason. 

149. But knowing = only knowing or simply knowing. 
162. Downs = hills. From A. S. dun, a hill. 

167. Fired ^= lighted up by the setting sun. 

168. Gateway horn = the horn used by visitors to announce their 
presence. 

181. Livest betzveen the lips = art known or called by. 

193. Blank = without coat of arms or other device. 

196. J Vol = knows. 

202. Lustihood =^ vigor of body. 

214. j9^?//>^^= perhaps. 

218. An if ^\{. 

12.1. So = if. 

259. Doom = destruction. 

263. Smaller time = time of less noble thought and feeling. 

269. Glajiced = referred or alluded to. 

287. Glem, etc. — See introduction. 

293. Lady^s Head = image of the Virgin Mary. 

294. Ceiitred, etc. — The emerald was set in the centre of a pictured sun. 



626 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

297. ]\Iute Horses standard of the northern invaders. 

338. Rathe = early. It is the positive form, now little used, of rather. 

356. Favor = something worn as a sign of regard. 

382. Squire = shield-bearer. 

411. Broke frofii underground = rose above the horizon. 

416. Lancelot of the Lake. — See introduction. 

422. Pendragon — dragon's head, a title descending to Arthur from his 
reputed father, Uther. 

431. Samite = a rich silk stuff, usually adorned with gold. 

442. Nameless king. — See line 40. 

456. Shock = strike together, collide. 

482. Smoke = are blown into mist by the wind. 

489. Worshipfully = honorably, worthily. From A. S. stem xveorth, 
worthy, honorable. 

502. Diamond me, etc. = do not speak to me of diamonds. 

529. Marches = borders, frontiers. From A. S. mearc, border. 

545. Bring us — bring us word. 

552. Mid might = the might of vigorous manhood. 

556. Sir Modred was Arthur's nephew, and finally became a traitor. 
See " Guinevere " and "The Passing of Arthur." 

654. To all the 7vinds = in all directions, 

660. Ramp = stand rampant; that is, upright on their hind legs. 

681. One I may not name = Queen Guinevere. 

703. Liege = sovereign. In the older sense, a liege lord was ^ free lord. 
Common meaning, faithful, loyal. 

715. Tzventy strokes, etc. = twenty beats of the pulse. 

739. Wor7nwood =■ 2. plant of bitter, nauseous taste. From A. S. wer- 
mod, ware-wood, mind-preserver. So called, says Skeat, from its curative 
properties in diseases of the mind. Thus it has no connection with either 
luorm or ivood. 

798. Far bloods distant relations. 

844. Either tzvilight = morning and evening. 

857. Simples =medicin?d plants. "So called," says Webster, "be- 
cause each vegetable is supposed to possess its particular virtue, and therefore 
to constitute a simple remedy." 

870. Straitened = confined, bound. 

880. Ghostly grace = the image of the Queen seen vaguely in fancy. 

898. Burthen = chorus or refrain of a song. 

939. Quit = repay, requite. 

953. Realm beyond the seas. — -See introduction. 

995. Sallow-rifted = streaked or seamed with pale yellow. 
1012. Scaled ^=^ ascended, rose in pitch. 



NOTES TO ELAINE. 627 

1084. Pass = die. 

1092. Ghostly W(^7;/ = priest. From A. S. giist, spirit; the h has been 
inserted. 

II 14. (7//<7r/W-/;/cv = hearse; a vehicle on which dead bodies are borne. 

1 129. Dole =^ grief, sorrow. 

1 131. With bent broios = with heads bowed in sorrow. 

1 134. Ett/i-summer = with light and beauty of mid-summer. 

1 1 76. Artnlet = an ornament for the arm. 

1254. Erom the half face, etc. = from a side view to look the king full in 
the face. 

1300. Sea ivas her ivrath, etc. = her wrath was like the sea raging after a 
storm. 

1316. Worship =: honor. See line 489. 



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